The birthday had ended in a blur of candles, applause, and forced smiles. To the children, it had been a day of cake and games; to the adults, it had been something else—a careful balancing act of laughter and concern, glances exchanged between Fabio, Jean, and the grandparents.
Even at five years old, Stefan had noticed. He might not have understood every detail of the private conversation between his father and Jean, whispered behind closed doors, but he had caught the tone. Tension hung in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate. Three years had passed since the explosion in Madrid, and yet that unease had not vanished. It had simply settled, becoming a discreet shadow that shaped the rhythm of their lives.
Now, freshly turned five, Stefan noticed how every outing, every visit, every family gesture carried a cautious undertone that didn't quite match the appearances of laughter and garden strolls.
The estate in La Moraleja had become more than a family home; it was a small fortress. High walls, cameras discreetly mounted, guards stationed at invisible angles. Once, the presence of bodyguards had been subtle—shadows in the background. Now they were constant companions.
When Stefan played in the garden with toy soldiers or ran among the orange trees, he could always sense them: two men in dark suits, sunglasses shading their eyes, hands clasped in front of them. They did not laugh, they did not play. They simply watched. For another child, this might have felt suffocating. For Stefan—whose soul carried decades of adult memories—it was confirmation. Something moved behind the curtains of daily life, something too large for a child to name, but too present to ignore.
Sometimes, he tested the boundaries. Running further than usual, hiding behind a hedge, or pretending to climb higher than he dared. Inevitably, within seconds, a guard would appear, voice calm but firm: "Señorito Stefan, por favor, no tan lejos." He would smile innocently, nod, and return. But inside, he took note. The security net around him was tighter than ever.
The grandparents had woven themselves into this new reality as well.
Vittorio and Isabella, the Italian side, had discovered in Madrid the perfect pretext to expand Gruppo De Angelis. A new office, new contacts, business dinners disguised as family visits. Their presence carried weight, both in money and influence.
Heinrich and Carmen, the maternal pair, approached matters differently. Heinrich, with his German-Swiss precision, sought balance. His quiet observations and clipped phrases always seemed aimed at keeping the family grounded, as though stability could be built by sheer force of will. Carmen, by contrast, was Madrid incarnate—fiery, affectionate, her presence filling the halls with carnations, songs, and sharp opinions.
For Stefan, watching these two families—so different in culture, temperament, and worldview—intertwine was fascinating. They had been brought together not only by blood but also by necessity. Beneath the cheerful disputes and affectionate gestures, all four grandparents shared the same unspoken truth: the boy at the center of the garden games was the future, and his protection was non-negotiable.
The weeks after the birthday were filled with discreet gatherings.
Jean Morel became almost a fixture at the estate. Always with folders tucked under his arm, always serious, always deliberate. He spoke softly with Fabio in the study, emerging hours later with his glasses slightly askew and his tie loosened. He tried, whenever Stefan was around, to soften his demeanor—offering a smile, a kind word in French—but the boy noticed the heaviness behind his eyes.
At dinner, Fabio masked his fatigue with clumsy jokes and anecdotes. "You know, Stefan, when I was your age I tried to make a kite out of paper. It ended in the river within ten minutes." Laughter followed, but Stefan saw through it. Behind every story was pressure building. Behind every smile was a weight his father would not name.
Stefan pretended to be distracted by his food, by his toys, but he listened. Always. Words like "Commission," "Spain," "stability," slipped into conversations he wasn't meant to hear. He stored them away, fitting them like puzzle pieces into the broader picture of a Europe he knew from another life.
In the garden, Stefan found a different kind of stage. Children of diplomats, businessmen, and politicians often visited with their parents. Though Stefan was the youngest, his presence carried an odd gravity.
"Let's build a fortress," he suggested once, gathering cushions from the terrace. The other children laughed and joined in. Within minutes, a sprawling citadel of fabric and imagination stood tall. Stefan positioned them into teams: defenders here, attackers there, messengers between. He gave orders not with shouting but with calm certainty, and the others followed.
Later, when alliances formed and disputes arose, he mediated. "You two should join forces—together you'll be stronger." His words, so simple, carried logic even children could understand. The games became miniatures of diplomacy, though no one else saw it that way.
A cousin whispered, half-admiring, half-nervous: "He plays like he's older. Like he already knows how things end."
The adults watching from the terrace exchanged glances—some amused, others unsettled. They saw a boy leading games. Stefan knew it was more. Each interaction was a lesson. Each name, each family, each connection—he stored them patiently, like gold coins in a hidden vault.
Yet Stefan also understood the need for innocence. He laughed at silly jokes, chased butterflies, and asked the kinds of questions any child might.
At the dinner table, he tilted his head once and asked, "Papa, why don't all countries give more power to Brussels? Isn't it better if everyone is together instead of apart?"
The room went silent for a second too long. Fabio cleared his throat, Jean adjusted his glasses, and one of the grandparents let out a nervous chuckle. "It's… complicated," Fabio finally said, offering a vague explanation about history and differences. Jean added something about "things too difficult for now."
But Stefan knew better. Behind those evasions lay the heart of Europe's struggle, the same currents he had seen play out decades later in his other life. He smiled and nodded, feigning acceptance, but inside, his thoughts churned.
The estate itself became a stage of contradictions. To neighbors, it was simply a grand residence: children playing, adults hosting dinners, music spilling out on warm evenings. To Stefan, it was something else entirely—a bastion, a refuge, perhaps even a gilded cage.
Sometimes, lying in bed at night, he would hear footsteps in the hall: guards rotating shifts, servants whispering as they checked locks. Through his window, the stars above Madrid shone faintly, and Stefan wondered how much freedom truly remained within those high walls.
He thought of the explosion in 1969, of the whispered conversation at his birthday, of Jean's folders filled with secrets. Every smile hides something. Every silence carries weight.
And yet, even within that cage, Stefan began to shape his role.
Not as just another child, not as a passive spectator. But as someone who, even if he could not yet show it fully, understood that destiny was shifting. That the choices made in these quiet halls of La Moraleja were not only about his family, but about the Europe beyond the garden walls.
The days stretched on, filled with ordinary rhythms—breakfasts with warm bread and butter, lessons with private tutors, games in the sun. To an outsider, nothing seemed extraordinary.
But Stefan knew. Every routine carried hidden meaning. Every visitor brought whispers. Every glance between his father and Jean told a story that wasn't shared aloud.
Beneath the calm surface of childhood, shadows stirred. And Stefan, watching with eyes too old for his age, was ready to remember everything.