Eight months after the chaos and bloodshed that almost destroyed their world, peace finally found its way into the Maximus estate.
Sophia had recovered, her strength returning with every sunrise, and with that strength came a miracle — the birth of their son, Max.
The first time Maximus held the tiny boy in his arms, the man who once ruled Rio's underworld felt something he couldn't name. His hands, once steady with a gun, now trembled as they cradled life.
Sophia smiled weakly from the hospital bed, exhaustion and joy written across her face.
"He has your eyes," she whispered.
Maximus looked down at the baby and shook his head. "No," he said softly. "He has yours. Full of light."
---
The years that followed were quieter — gentler than anything Maximus had ever known.
He began cutting ties with the underworld, selling businesses, disappearing from the streets. He no longer wanted to be the Devil of Rio. He wanted to be a father.
The mansion that once echoed with orders, gunfire, and footsteps of armed men now filled with laughter — a small boy's laughter that softened even the coldest corners of his heart.
Sophia often watched from the porch as Maximus, the man who once commanded killers, now struggled to build toy cars or chase butterflies in the garden.
"Dad!" Max called one afternoon, sprinting barefoot across the grass. "Look! I caught one!"
Maximus looked up from his chair, a rare smile tugging at his lips. The newspaper in his lap carried yet another headline about violence in the city — a reminder of the world he had left behind.
"Careful," he warned gently. "You'll hurt it."
"I won't," Max said proudly. "It's free now!"
He opened his hands, and the butterfly flew into the sky, disappearing into sunlight.
Sophia laughed quietly. "He's just like you."
Maximus chuckled, shaking his head. "Let's hope not."
---
As Max grew older, so did his questions. He was bright, curious — maybe too curious.
"Mom," he asked one night as she tucked him in, "why does Dad always look sad when he reads the news?"
Sophia paused, brushing his hair from his forehead. "Your father has seen many bad things, my love. Sometimes memories make people sad."
"Like bad dreams?" Max asked.
She smiled faintly. "Exactly. Bad dreams that stay even after you wake up."
---
When Max turned seven, he stumbled onto something that would change both their lives forever.
It was a rainy afternoon, and he was looking for his missing football. The search led him into a locked room he had never entered before — his father's old office. Dust hung in the air like ghosts of the past.
On the desk were old papers, faded photos, and a pistol sealed inside a glass case.
Max's eyes caught on one photograph: a younger Maximus, wearing black, standing beside tattooed men with guns. Beneath it lay a yellowed newspaper clipping.
> MAFIA BOSS STRIKES AGAIN – BLOODBATH IN RIO.
Max froze. The man in the picture — his father.
He read the headline again and again, the word Mafia echoing in his head. It didn't fit the man who tucked him in at night or taught him to ride a bike.
For the first time, Max felt something heavy in his chest — confusion, fear, disbelief.
That night at dinner, he barely touched his food. Maximus noticed.
"What's wrong, son?" he asked, his tone gentle.
"Nothing," Max mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
Sophia frowned, sensing the weight in his voice. "You can tell us anything, Max."
The boy hesitated. Finally, he looked at his father. "Dad… what's a mafia boss?"
The room fell silent. Sophia's fork slipped from her hand.
Maximus's heart stopped cold. He had prayed this day would never come.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked carefully.
"I saw it," Max said. "In your old office. There was a picture… and a newspaper. It said you were one."
Sophia pressed her hands to her mouth, whispering, "Oh, Maximus…"
He sighed, pushed his chair back, and knelt in front of his son. "Yes," he said at last. "I was a mafia boss. A long time ago."
"Why?" Max's voice trembled. "Why would you hurt people?"
Maximus looked down, shame in every breath. "Because I thought that was the only way to survive. But I was wrong. None of it mattered — the power, the fear, the money. When I met your mother, I learned what really does."
"What's that?" Max whispered.
"Family," Maximus said quietly. "Love."
The boy stared at him for a long moment before suddenly throwing his arms around him. "Then please, Dad… don't be a mafia boss anymore. Ever again."
Something inside Maximus broke — and healed. He hugged his son tightly, his voice rough. "I promise, Max. I'm done. Forever."
---
That night, long after Max had fallen asleep, Maximus stood by the window.
Rain whispered against the glass, and in his hand, he held an old phone — one that only the underworld still knew. The screen was cracked, the names on it ghosts of men long gone.
Sophia joined him quietly, her arms sliding around his waist. "You're thinking again," she murmured.
He nodded, eyes distant. "Just wondering how long peace lasts for men like me."
"As long as we stay together," she whispered.
He looked down at the phone for a final moment, then walked to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames.
The plastic sizzled, melted, and turned to ash.
"Then together it is," he said.
---
Years passed. Max grew stronger, smarter, and kinder — a reflection of both his parents.
Maximus still bore his scars, but they no longer defined him. Now, he defined himself by something greater — being a father, a husband, a man who chose peace.
But sometimes, late at night, when the world was quiet, he would wake up from dreams that weren't dreams at all — shadows whispering from the past.
Enemies forgotten. Debts unpaid. Names buried but not erased.
Sophia would always find him by the window, watching the dark skyline.
"You're still awake?" she'd ask.
He'd smile faintly. "Couldn't sleep."
She'd rest her head on his shoulder. "You don't have to look back anymore."
He wanted to believe her.
For their sake, he tried to.
But even as he watched his son sleep, peaceful and safe, he knew the truth — the past doesn't stay buried forever.
And somewhere in the city he once ruled, someone still remembered the name Maximus Silva.
Still remembered the blood he spilled.
Still waited for vengeance.
Maximus turned away from the window, whispering to himself as he looked at his sleeping son:
"As long as I'm alive… no one will ever touch you."