One of the stepbrothers—Marco, the loudest of them all—clapped his hands and shouted with a grin,
"Why don't we take him to the execution field and decide his destiny like we always do?"
Another cheered. Then another.
Before long, the whole bloodline—stepbrothers, cousins, distant uncles—were agreeing, laughing, clapping Silvio on the back like this was some kind of party.
Silvio was sweating. Pale. Quiet. His lips trembled, but no words came.
Nico didn't flinch. He had his gun raised, pointed steady at Silvio's forehead, but his smirk was cold.
Then he said calmly,
"He doesn't get to decide."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Kyan does."
Silence hit the hall like thunder.
Nico took a drag of his cigarette, eyes still fixed on Silvio.
"Go to the dungeon," he ordered one of the guards. "Release Kyan. Clean him up. Bring him here."
Silvio's knees nearly gave out.
"Please…" he whispered. "Please, Master Nico—don't let him decide. He's just a boy—he doesn't know—"
"Oh, he knows pain," Nico cut in. "And pain gives people clarity."
The guards dragged Silvio forward. He didn't fight. He just stared around in disbelief. The same field he had watched countless others get slaughtered—some innocent, some not—was now waiting for him.
He saw the bloody sand. The metal chair. The old pole they tied men to.
He gulped.
"I've been loyal!" he shouted suddenly, voice cracking as they pushed him down the hall. "I've served this family since your father married your mother! I've cooked, cleaned, kept your secrets!"
Nico walked behind him, slow and quiet. The only thing louder than his footsteps was the sound of Silvio's breathing—short, sharp, panicked.
They reached the open yard. The execution field.
Silvio stumbled when the sunlight hit his face. He blinked at the pole, and this time—he cried.
"Don't do this…" he begged. "Don't let that boy choose my death."
Nico lit another cigarette and whispered coldly,
"Then you should've never tried to choose his."
And he turned to wait… for Kyan.
The brothers were already gathered, lined up like a pack of wolves hungry for a show. Some leaned against stone pillars with smug faces, while others folded their arms, whispering, watching the pole in the middle of the execution yard—where Silvio knelt, shaking, tied, waiting.
Then the gate creaked open.
All heads turned.
Kyan stepped in.
He was clean now, hair slightly damp, a fresh white shirt hanging off his still-bruised frame. He walked with a slight limp, but his face? That soft, pretty face held something unexpected—
A smile.
A small one. But it was there.
Nico turned from where he stood, hands in his pockets, smoke curling from his lips. He didn't say anything, just looked at Kyan.
Kyan blinked at the scene. The ropes. The crowd. The silence.
Then he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Nico to hear,
"Damn… I thought I was coming for dinner."
Nico's lip twitched.
Kyan stopped just a few feet away from Silvio and scratched his head, looking at him like someone trying to remember where they last saw a missing sock.
"So… you tried to kill me?"
Silvio looked away.
Nico stepped forward and nodded to Kyan. His voice was calm but deep, commanding.
"He confessed. He poisoned the food. He wanted all the new workers blamed. He watched you suffer."
Then, Nico's eyes locked on Kyan.
"Now… it's your call."
"My call?" Kyan repeated, blinking in surprise.
The brothers scoffed behind him. One muttered, "This is ridiculous."
But Kyan ignored them. He looked at Silvio again… then slowly turned toward Nico, a faint smirk on his lips.
"Master Nico," he said sweetly, tilting his head like a mischievous cat, "are you sure you want me to decide? I mean, I just got out the dungeon. My brain's a little fried. I might ask for something crazy."
Nico arched a brow. "Try me."
Kyan grinned, wide-eyed, playing with the cuff of his sleeve.
"Okay… let's start with the basics: Do I get a crown? A throne? Maybe a snack first?"
A few of the brothers hissed in disgust. But Nico just stared, smoke dancing around his face, unreadable.
Kyan let out a soft sigh and looked at Silvio again.
His smile faded.
"I could ask to kill you right now," he said, softly. "But that would be too easy."
Nico's stare sharpened.
"You want to torture him?"
Kyan gave a cheeky shrug. "Me? No.
Nico narrowed his eyes, gun still loosely in his grip.
"Then what do you want, Kyan?" His voice was low, curious, almost testing him.
Kyan looked up at him.
Those damn eyes again.
Big. Honest. Shimmering with something soft and reckless all at once.
And for a second—just a split second—Nico forgot where he was.
Kyan's voice came light, almost teasing.
"Why don't we… forgive him?"
The brothers gasped. One of them even laughed in disbelief.
Silvio, still on his knees, looked up with a pathetic, broken face, his lips trembling like someone who couldn't believe his luck.
"You… what?" he muttered.
"Everyone makes mistakes, right?" Kyan went on, stepping closer, still looking at Nico.
"Even you. Even me. Maybe even that old man over there pretending not to fart."
A few guards held in their chuckles. The atmosphere shifted, if only for a heartbeat.
But Nico didn't smile. His jaw tensed.
He stepped in closer, towering over Kyan now. His voice dipped, a little more gravel in it.
"You want me to let him go?"
Kyan shrugged, still playful, but his eyes weren't joking.
"No. I said forgive. Doesn't mean he walks free. Maybe we put him in the cellar for a while. Make him eat his own soup."
Nico stared at him for a long beat.
The yard was silent. Even the birds seemed to wait.
Finally, Nico looked down at Silvio—weak, dirty, trembling—and back at Kyan.
He huffed out a sharp breath, shaking his head.
"You're lucky he likes talking too much," he muttered to Silvio.
Then he motioned.
"Lock him up. Solitary. No visitors."
As the guards dragged Silvio away, Kyan turned to Nico with a soft grin.
"See? You do have a heart."
Nico rolled his eyes and started walking off, but not before mumbling under his breath—
"Shut up before I throw you in the cellar too.
The Don stood silent, lips tight.
Nico had done it—proved himself. The crowd watched, stunned. A king in full command.
But the Don's eyes didn't soften. Not even a little.
As he turned to leave, he muttered under his breath,
"Let's see how long you last, boy. Round two begins now."