Our little girl is beautiful.
She's an angel, she really is.
Her soft pink skin is wrinkled, her brown ombré eyes wide and bright.
Observing, taking it all it.
And there is much to take in.
She fusses and coos, swiping at her face with her tiny little fingers and kicking.
She's so tiny.
It scares me how tiny she is.
This world is too big for such a tiny little angel.
Such a beautiful little princess, but I don't rule the world. And as much as I want to give it to her, I can't. It's not mine to give.
It's different. When I first held Apollo, he was six. Already old enough to walk, talk on his own.
Think on his own.
Not very well most times, but.
This little creature lays on my bare chest, and it's different.
The pad of my finger strokes the fuzz on her head.
Distant screams haunt me, but I try to sing over it for her.
And it's hard, it's hard because I can hear it; her tortured screams, her memories.
It's hard because I'm the most feared man on this side of the globe, and can't really do anything. I'm powerless.
If it's one thing I loathe, it's being powerless.
My guns can't get me outta this.
Neither can my billions, or my men or my scientists.
Not the cops on my payroll.
She didn't even get to name her.
It means Golden in Italian.
"Papa can hold my baby sister?"
I place her gingerly in his arms, adjusting him so he was supporting her head.
Apollo looked up at me, beaming.
"She's so small!"
"Sì. But she won't be for long."
Horrific screams erupt once more.