Changing The Story

The mask of coolness had long since crumbled.

Rocco's pitiful, tearful plea hung in the rain, waiting for a response.

The answer Georgio gave was not what Rocco expected.

"...Family… is something built on love, isn't it?"

"Huh? W-well, yeah, it is…" Rocco stammered, nodding in agreement.

Of course, family was about love.

…Wait, was it different for the mafia family? Rocco wondered briefly.

Oh well, never mind that.

"Then… will you love me completely? My little angel… my dear, tiny master?"

Before Rocco could even process the words, Georgio moved.

It happened so fast that Rocco didn't even register it.

One blink later, and Georgio had pinned him to the ground, crouching over him.

Georgio's flushed cheeks curved into a wide, unsettling grin.

His dark eyes gleamed with a tinge of madness as he leaned close, whispering near Rocco's ear.

"Love me... won't you?"

"H-huh?!"

Rocco's mind spiraled into chaos.

Something was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

In the original story, after Sylas rescued Georgio, their relationship was described as a straightforward, professional master-servant dynamic.

Neither of them had interfered in the other's personal life beyond what was necessary.

But the way Georgio's gaze burned now—wild, unhinged, and unnervingly possessive—hinted at something far from the detached relationship Rocco remembered from the novel.

This wasn't good.

This was very, very bad.

Somehow, Rocco realized with mounting dread that he had completely twisted Georgio's story arc.

A dull thud resounded just as Georgio leaned in to kiss Rocco.

In the next instant, Georgio's figure vanished from above Rocco, who was left lying flat on his back and stunned on the ground.

Blinking his eyes in confusion, Rocco quickly scanned the surroundings and spotted Georgio a short distance away, crouched and clutching his side.

His eyes widened in shock.

"Do not touch Young Master," a low, commanding voice growled.

Before Rocco could fully process what was happening, a strong, muscular arm lifted him with ease.

He found himself cradled as though on a sturdy chair, the sheer solidity of the arm providing a sense of bizarre stability—like sitting on a tree trunk.

Rocco froze at the deep voice that rumbled from above him.

He recognized it immediately.

It was the same voice that usually only uttered obedient phrases like "Understood," and nothing more.

He hesitantly tilted his head upward, blinking in disbelief.

There, towering above him, was Ragar, his eyes gleaming with a feral intensity as they locked onto Georgio.

Ragar's predatory gaze was sharp, as if he were moments away from pouncing.

After delivering his initial warning, Ragar fell silent with his lips pressed tightly together.

"What the hell are you?" Georgio said while spatting a blood from his mouth, his voice is filled with venom. "You have no right to touch my angel!"

Georgio rose to his feet in a fluid motion, his expression eerily blank.

From beneath his coat, he drew a folding knife that gleamed ominously in the light.

The sweet smile and faint blush that had adorned his face just moments before were now entirely gone, replaced by a cold, lifeless stare.