Mort's spoiled dinner

"Let's discuss this later," she said, withdrawing her hand. Michael adjusted his glasses and leaned forward.

"O-oh-oh, does someone have secrets from us? Does our Deymiara now trust another Mort?"

Just then, a young man with brown eyes and slightly darkened golden hair entered the room. It was Mr. Mort - the father of everyone present. He nodded to the servants and took his honored seat. He adjusted his tie and shrugged off his coat.

"Good evening. I thought you had started without me. Apologies for being late." Wendy rushed over to the blond, took him by the hand, and smiled. Meanwhile, Denny and Michael exchanged glances. Mr. Mort's gaze swept over everyone and lingered longest on the youngest. She responded to him with undisguised disdain.

"Well, that looks delicious."

Various dishes began to grace the table, making everyone's mouths water. Wendy chatted about her modeling career, sometimes interrupted by Michael's work-related questions. The man kept the conversation flowing with the children and managed to sneak a few bites into his mouth as well.

"And what about you?" Mr. Mort turned to the holy trinity, who occasionally tossed comments about the food to the side. Denny chewed a piece of steak and shot his parents a glance, trying to convey that they shouldn't pry. "I see you're bonding and making progress."

"Deymi and Grace went to the same school as you suggested. This school is indeed elegant. Hopefully, Deymi will make progress there." The brunette spoke sweetly.

"Really? And how is it? Is everything fitting well?" The blond asked with curiosity. "By the way, I noticed you haven't even touched your wine glass. That goes against our traditions."

Grace soon set down her fork and said, "The school is quite decent. Prestigious and elite. It boasts a tasty kitchen and engaging activities without being overwhelming. The teachers explain things as if they want to captivate us. The classmates are mostly fine. I'll be able to find a friend there."

Deymiara thumped her fist on the table and shot a pointed look at the brunette. The mafia shouldn't catch onto her brother's innuendos.

"And how about you and school?" Mr. Mort turned to the younger girl. She put on a forced smile and muttered through her teeth.

"Wonderful... just what I needed."

"Oh dear." Wendy sighed. "I can see... our Deymiara isn't pleased with anything... including the school. We tried so hard to help. What a shame."

"Help yourself first." She snapped, looking displeased at her sister. Her hands reached for the bowl with the hot soup, as if she wanted to throw it in Wendy's face. Seeing this, Denny and Grace simultaneously grabbed Deymiara's hands, covering their own, preventing her from doing anything. The man chuckled and looked intrigued at his daughter.

Suddenly, to shift the mood, Michael raised his glass.

"Well then, let's have a drink."

The others raised their glasses and began to drink... except for the youngest, of course. She lifted the glass to her lips, and an odd, sharp smell of cherries and grapes immediately hit her nose. Deymiara grimaced, while Wendy spoke sarcastically.

"Cheers, Deymiara. After all, you're our future mafia."

Upon hearing this, the girl sported a cheeky and self-absorbed grin. She hoisted her glass upward... and with sudden vigor, flung it in reverse. The shatter of glass filled the air, and droplets and pools of wine emerged on the floor and wall.

Michael grinned, subtly adjusting his glasses with a fingertip. Although Deymiara's behavior could be grating, she was also undeniably strategic. She'd foreseen this outcome and methodically plotted her actions. And she hadn't missed the chance to remind her sister of their longstanding enmity.

"Oh, Wendy, how did this occur? My aim was directed at you, but the result was utterly unexpected," Deymiara exclaimed, feigning concern. "Could you kindly replace my glass? It seems mine suffered a mishap."

Unsuspecting, Wendy wondered. However, as their hands briefly connected, the glass abruptly fissured. The brunette gasped as a gash materialized on her hand where Wendy's touch had been. Grace alone noticed that the mafioso's hand bore a wound stretching from her finger to her wrist, potentially leaving a permanent mark. Mort leaned forward, clearly anxious.

"What's going on?" the youngest feigned surprise. "I wasn't aware of your firm grip, Wendy. Might you hand me a glass?"

"Am I to serve you like a maid?" Wendy protested, inspecting the wound on her hand. "Oh, darn it, my hands... they weren't designed for catering to your glass-related needs!" She glared at her sister, exasperated. "Why in the world did you do that?!"

"And what, pray tell, are your hands intended for? To covertly assist a waiter from your cherished 'Euphoria' cafe?" the brunette squinted, resembling a cunning cat more each moment. "I'm curious—do you have a relationship with him? Is it love or mere infatuation?"

Denny ceased his sister's teasing and arched an eyebrow, taken aback. Michael and Grace exchanged knowing looks as if to say, "We told you so!" while their father simply scowled.

"What does this signify, Wendy Mort?" Mr. Mort demanded sharply.

"Who shall emerge as the victor of this spectacle?" Deymiara pondered sweetly. "Not the biological child, not the unwanted, nor the rightful heir to riches?"

"So these are the family's new rules? You aim to obstruct my genuine love?" the woman erupted in hysteria and stormed off once she'd concluded.

"An intriguing spectacle... as always," the girl mumbled.

"Why did you feel the need to do this, Deymiara?" the man reproached sternly. "You've once again disrupted our evening."

"Me? Ruined it? Oh no, you ruined it yourselves. I merely shared news that had eluded your awareness," the brunette laughed.

"Why expose your sister's secret?" Mr. Mort pressed, but the youngest ignored him.

"Fetch some grape juice," Deymiara commanded, sinking into her chair. The senior housekeeper, who'd served Mr. Mort since childhood, hesitated but spoke up.

"Miss... following tradition... a tradition observed by your family for millennia, you are to drink... you are..."

"Is my directive unclear? I'm indifferent to your traditions," the girl's temper flared. "Bring me the juice... immediately!"

"But...," the woman stammered, her words interrupted by Grace's composed voice, who sought to spare the servant—a sister whose eyes were turning darker and redder by the moment.

"Abide by her wishes," the servant mumbled and retreated to the kitchen. The father sighed, massaging his forehead. Yet the brunette wasn't finished; she was determined to confront her husband too.

"Why did you adopt a non-biological child? Are your own children insufficient?" she injected the last word with a forced smile, a tinge of arrogance present in her tone. Mr. Mort inhaled deeply, then exhaled.

"I had no say in Wendy's adoption."

"Then who did?" the youngest pressed.