Chapter 2 - The Battle of the CookiesBy the next afternoon, word of Sophia’s impromptu parade had spread through the staff quarters like wildfire. The cooks were placing bets on whether she would try to hold his hand, while the senior housekeeper looked like she was preparing for a funeral.
I had spent the entire morning lecturing Sophia on estate etiquette. I explained about invisible lines, quiet voices, and the golden rule of never, ever mimicking men in dark suits. Sophia had nodded solemnly, her big hazel eyes wide with feigned angelic innocence.
“I good girl, Mama,” she had promised, crossing her tiny heart.
Naturally, she lied.
At 3:58 PM, I stationed myself in the pantry with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies—the ultimate bribe to distract her from the four o’clock hour. As Dante’s footsteps approached from the northern corridor, I held out a cookie.
“Look, sweetie,” I whispered urgently. “Fresh cookies. Sit right here and eat them.”
Sophia stared at the plate. Then she stared at the doorway. Then she looked back at me with absolute betrayal.
“Cookies lose,” she declared.
Before I could grab her pinafore, she darted out of the pantry like a shot from a cannon.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. I peeked around the doorframe just in time to watch Dante step out for his daily march. He took three steps, and right on cue, the tiny pair of pink light-up sneakers fell into lockstep behind him.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
The sneakers flashed a bright, obnoxious neon pink with every giant step she took.
Dante stopped dead in his tracks.
Sophia stopped dead in her tracks, nearly tripping over her own shoelaces.
He didn't turn around, but I could see the vein in his temple throbbing. He took another step. Squeak. She took another step.
Desperate to intercept, I grabbed an iPad from the breakroom, rushed down the hall, and knelt beside her, frantically pulling up her favorite animated cartoon—a relentlessly cheerful show featuring a singing blue rabbit that could cure any child's attention span.
“Sophia! Look! Cartoons!” I whispered loudly, thrusting the screen in front of her face.
The blue rabbit burst into a loud, screeching musical number right there in the hallowed halls of the Falcone estate.
Dante turned his head slightly, his dark gaze dropping down to the glowing screen, then to me, and finally to my daughter. His expression was a masterpiece of cold, unbridled bewilderment. He was a man accustomed to dealing with federal agents, rival syndicate bosses, and treacherous capos—not high-pitched animated rabbits singing about farm vegetables.
Sophia didn't even blink at the screen. She pushed the iPad away with one finger.
“No singing bunny,” she said firmly. “Mister is walking.”
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And with that, she marched right past me, resuming her position directly behind Dante’s left heel as he continued his procession toward the west wing.
Somehow, in the span of thirty seconds, a three-year-old girl had utterly defeated a singing blue rabbit and a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies without even breaking a sweat. I stood holding the glowing tablet in the middle of the hallway, realizing with a sinking sense of dread that my daughter had completely lost her mind—and she was dragging me down with her.
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