On wobbly legs, Sabrina emerged from the bathroom.

     She knew what would greet her. He would be gone. The instant the thought registered, she was consumed by the brutal finality of it all. And with her heart in her throat, she tore out of the room and down the hall to her father's.

     Her frantic, hurried steps faltered as she saw her father emerging at the top of the stairwell. She knew there was only one reason he'd have been downstairs as this late hour.

     "Papa, please--"

     The words died on her lips as Michael fixed his gaze upon her. It was a gaze that bordered on beautiful in its terror. So frozen by his piercing, unrelenting stare, she barely registered his warm hands cupping her tear-streaked face. Nor did her body acknowledge the gentleness of his embrace, fierce yet soothing, as he cradled a now near-hysterically sobbing Sabrina in his arms.

     "Shh, Sabryn...."

     "Please," she sobbed into the silk fabric of his robe. Eyes wide with fear and desperation, she looked up at him. "Never have I...asked anything of you." Her words tumbled out in a short, choppy rhythm. "Don't do this, Papa. Don't to this to him."

     Perhaps some ages old instinct alerted Michael Corleone to what his eldest child's next words would be. Or perhaps it was that part of his soul that even after all the brutality and carnage it had been subjected to refused to bear witness such pain and anguish being inflicted upon his own flesh and blood.

     Whatever the case, still cradling his daughter's trembling form, Michael cupped Sabrina's head and nestled it firmly against his chest. Effectively drowning out her last tearful, broken plea:

     "Don't do this to me..."