The Spanish government and the European Commission had finally approved what Fabio had quietly requested: permission for his family to relocate permanently to the estate in La Moraleja, north of Madrid. It was more than just a residence—it was a fortress disguised as a family home. After the attack in 1969, everyone agreed that no safer haven existed: discreetly guarded, politically prudent, and embraced by relatives who would protect them with heart and soul.
Every detail of that choice whispered the same dual message: caution and love.
The morning of May 1972 greeted them with brightness and fragrance. The skies cleared after a spring shower, leaving the air crisp and infused with the citrus tang of orange blossoms. Bees hummed lazily in the garden, where roses and carnations climbed trellises that Carmen herself had once arranged. The estate glowed under the May sun, as though it too had dressed up for the occasion.
Today was not just any day—it was Stefan's fifth birthday. And for once, the shadow of politics bent around something tender.
The estate filled with voices early. Lena supervised with quiet efficiency, her eyes flitting from garlands to trays of sweets, adjusting what the maids overlooked. Fabio moved between servants and guests, ensuring both protocol and warmth.
By late morning, the first cars arrived. From Italy came Giovanni and Isabella De Angelis, paternal grandparents carrying the aura of another world. Giovanni's presence was heavy yet calm, a man of business and calculation whose handshake spoke more than his words. Beside him, Isabella radiated charm—Spanish spoken with a lilting Italian accent, interspersed with affectionate tesoro and carissimo.
From Spain came the maternal pair: Heinrich and Carmen. Heinrich, though German-born, carried himself with a precision that reminded some of Swiss bankers—orderly, restrained, deliberate. Carmen was his contrast, Madrid embodied: lively gestures, quick laughter, and her inevitable bouquet of red carnations, which she pressed into Lena's hands with pride.
All four together in one place gave Stefan a strange jolt of wonder. In his other life, birthdays had often been lonely. Now, here was a table set with four distinct pillars of his family history. Their laughter, overlapping accents, and warm disputes wrapped the garden in an unfamiliar music.
Stefan, dressed in a simple linen shirt and shorts, observed quietly. His smile was sincere but never naïve. Inside, the five-year-old housed a mind constantly measuring. Every guest, every child present was more than company—they were potential seeds for the future.
He noted them carefully. Sons and daughters of diplomats, cousins of ministers, children of businessmen who might one day inherit firms. What seemed like playmates to them appeared to him as a network forming in miniature.
His strategy, though silent, became action when the games began.
"Line up here—yes, behind the elm tree," Stefan instructed with a natural air. "You two race first, then pass the baton."
It was remarkable. He didn't shout, he didn't command, yet the children listened. A cousin muttered, impressed, "He talks like he's ten." The others laughed, but they followed him nonetheless.
From a shaded table, Fabio watched with folded arms. Giovanni, beside him, said in a low voice, "That child… he leads without realizing."
Fabio's lips curved faintly. "No. He realizes. But he doesn't need force. That is what makes it real leadership."
Jean Morel, quietly observing as always, leaned toward Fabio and added, "People follow him because they feel he sees them. Even now, at five."
The thought lingered between them like a secret omen.
The games carried on until the inevitable tumble came. A child tripped, scraping his knee, tears already swelling. Before any adult could intervene, Stefan knelt.
"Here, take my hand," he said, steady and calm. He dabbed at the scratch with a clean cloth from his pocket—he had carried it just in case. His small voice soothed where adult fuss might have amplified panic. The boy sniffled, then laughed, the crisis over.
Parents murmured their thanks. But the impression of Stefan's composure remained in the air, unspoken but noted.
Later, when refreshments were served, Lena unveiled a flag among the decorations—a deep blue rectangle with golden stars. The children pointed curiously.
Anna, a neighbor's daughter, asked, "What's that?"
Stefan didn't hesitate. "It's Europe's flag," he said with quiet conviction. "Each star is a country. Together they promise to help one another. Like when we build a tower: if one block slips, the others hold it up."
The explanation, simple yet profound, silenced the adults momentarily. Isabella blinked in surprise, moved. Carmen whispered to Heinrich, "At five years old, he speaks like a teacher."
Manuel, one of the uncles, chuckled softly. "Incredible insight… the boy sees further than he should."
Gentle applause followed, not ostentatious but sincere. The children clapped without really knowing why, swept by the mood. Stefan bowed his head slightly, as though embarrassed. Inside, though, he knew: Every word is a seed. Let them remember it.
As the sun leaned westward, games resumed. Laughter bubbled through the estate, mingling with the strumming of a guitar Carmen had insisted on hiring. Stefan slipped away to the balcony overlooking the garden.
From there, the horizon stretched clear. Madrid's skyline was faint in the distance, and further still—at least in Stefan's mind—lay Brussels, the heart of Europe's machinery.
His thoughts stretched beyond his years. Alliances, education, influence. Everything begins in moments like these. Childhood bonds could one day open doors that no official decree could. He watched the other children running below, each face a piece on the board of a future he intended to shape.
Behind him, voices rose. Giovanni, ever the patriarch, lifted his glass. "To Stefan," he declared warmly. "May your mind remain curious, and your heart remain brave."
Glasses clinked. Adults smiled. Stefan, with a juice glass in his hand, lifted it shyly. Yet within him, that spark of promise burned brighter.
When the cake was finally brought out, five small candles flickered. The children gathered around, singing with bright voices. Stefan leaned forward, ready to blow.
But then, something caught his eye. On the terrace edge, Jean leaned toward Fabio, whispering urgently. The shift was subtle, but Stefan noticed instantly.
Fabio's demeanor hardened. His easy warmth vanished, replaced by the stillness of a man suddenly braced for impact. Jean's face was tense, eyes sharp. Two security men appeared almost at once, silent as shadows.
Stefan froze mid-breath. Candlelight shimmered across his face. Around him, the grandparents had noticed too—Isabella frowned, Heinrich's eyes narrowed, Carmen bit her lip.
The children, oblivious, kept clapping and urging him on.
Fabio and Jean exchanged a final glance before slipping discreetly toward the estate office, their steps swallowed by the murmur of celebration.
Stefan blinked. For a heartbeat, the garden seemed to hold its breath. Then he exhaled sharply—fwoosh—and all five candles went dark.
Applause erupted. Children cheered, parents smiled, laughter returned. The festive atmosphere resumed its flow.
But inside Stefan's chest, the echo of that whisper lingered. He had seen the shadow beneath the celebration. He felt it coil like a seed planted in the midst of balloons, gifts, and cake.
A dark seed had taken root in the light of his fifth birthday.