Rocco's Reckoning

Behind him, his loyal guards, Ragar and Georgio, glared sharply at the man in glasses.

Normally, Rocco would have joined them, matching their icy stares with his own cool demeanor.

But not today.

Today, fear—no, perhaps it was nervous excitement—robbed him of that strength.

Sorry, you two. You'll have to glare at him for me.

The bespectacled man, surprised by the silent hostility from Ragar and Georgio, briefly met their gazes before regaining his composure.

With a smile that was all business, he spoke again.

"…Right this way. Please, step inside."

With that single statement, the tension shifted.

The two black-suited men standing on either side of the door moved to open it in unison.

A chilling air seeped out from within, heavy with the oppressive swirl of unspoken hostility.

Rocco's eyes first landed on the long dining table that was large enough to seat dozens of people.

A strikingly imposing man with his presence exuding authority, sat at the head of the table, a furrow etched deeply between his brows.

Following him in order were a beautiful youth with long hair, sharing the same hair and eye color as the man, and a glamorous woman whose expression practically radiated malice.

Rocco forced himself to relax his stiffened body and began to walk, trailing behind the bespectacled man who is leading the way.

The room was silent, oppressively so, as they crossed the space toward the seat that was prepared for him.

A faint, almost imperceptible hostility clung to the air, and the sharp, judgmental stares made the atmosphere unbearably stifling.

Overwhelmed by tension and fear, Rocco found himself unable to speak.

He managed to maintain a composed expression, enduring the eternal-seeming seconds of silence.

His eyes lowered to the plate in front of him, where an exquisitely crafted dish—something that seemed straight out of a Michelin-starred restaurant—rested.

He stared at it for several moments before the silence was broken by his mother Layla.

"You've grown so much, Rocco. It's been such a long time since the last time I saw your face, and I'm truly delighted," she said cheerfully.

Her tone was warm, but Rocco didn't miss the likely sneer hidden beneath the fan that obscured the lower half of her face.

Her vibrant blonde hair and orange eyes that was unique among the family, gleamed brightly.

Struggling to smile, Rocco forced out a reply from his tense throat.

"…I'm glad too, Mother."

He carefully pieced together his unfamiliar polite speech, his use of the word "Mother" feeling unnatural on his tongue.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of annoyance in Layla's expression at the term.

Pretending not to notice, he thought to himself, You don't have to make that face. I already know you don't love me.

But then again… I don't consider you—or anyone here—my family either. To Rocco, this place was a battlefield, nothing more, nothing less.

Just as his thoughts began to spiral downward, he suddenly felt a brief, faint touch at the back of his neck.