The Romano estate was a fortress carved into marble and silence. Alessio's car pulled up just past midnight, its engine purring like a wild animal finally returning home. The staff, quiet as ghosts, opened the doors without a word.
He stepped out in a sharp three-piece suit, exhaustion veiled behind dark sunglasses and the weight of too many obligations. Midnight felt heavier when it came with expectations.
Inside, the grand dining hall was dimly lit—chandeliers above casting gold and bone-colored shadows across the long table. His mother and father waited, regal in their stiff postures, their presence the embodiment of legacy and burden.
Marcello Romano, his father, was calm, sipping red wine with an unreadable expression. Across from him sat Alessio's mother, Isabella, sharp-eyed and elegant, wearing silence like perfume.
Alessio strode in without a greeting and sat at the end of the table. A servant poured him wine. The room smelled of aged wood, expensive alcohol, and unspoken judgments.
Marcello was first to speak. "The Balkan shipment was successful. No interference. Enzo handled it well."
"Good," Alessio replied flatly, swirling the wine but not drinking it.
Isabella placed her silverware down gently. "I'm glad you're here, caro. We need to discuss your engagement."
Alessio looked up, slow and deliberate. "What engagement?"
She smiled—soft, cunning. "To Elinor. Your late step-aunt's daughter. It's been finalized."
There was silence. A silence so loud it rang in his ears.
"She has agreed to give you an heir,"
Isabella continued as though discussing business. "She doesn't want love or interference. Just to fulfill her duties. She's graceful, educated, loyal."
"I don't recall being consulted," Alessio said coldly, wine still untouched.
Marcello interjected, "It's already arranged. The papers will be signed soon."
Isabella voice softened. "You'll grow to love her. You'll see."
"No," Alessio said finally. One word. Iron-clad.
Isabella brows lifted. "No?"
"I already have someone I plan to marry."
Shock swept the room like a slap.
Marcello leaned forward. "You what?"
Isabella eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Alessio didn't flinch. "The perfect candidate. Intelligent. Untouched. Loyal. Exactly I had in mind."
Oliver, his younger brother, laughed from his seat near the fireplace. "whos the unlucky one? ."
"Quiet," Alessio snapped.
Isabella stared at her eldest son. "Then let us meet this... person."
"When they're ready," Alessio said. "They're not fully trained yet to adapt to this world."
"You keep saying 'they,'" oliver said, narrowing his eyes. "Why avoid gender?"
Alessio raised his glass and drained the wine in one slow swallow. "Because the details aren't your concern. When the time comes, I'll bring them. Until then, stay out of it."
His tone left no room for argument.
Isabella didn't press. Not yet. But suspicion clouded her eyes.
Alessio stood. "If that's all..."
Marcello gave a curt nod. "For now."
Isabella smile was brittle. "I hope you know what you're doing, Alessio."
"I always do."
Without waiting for permission or farewell, he turned and left the house where he was born—a house full of history, but devoid of warmth. The air outside was colder, but somehow easier to breathe.
---
Back at the penthouse, the hours crept past like wounded animals.
It was nearly 2:30 a.m. when Alessio stepped out of his car and entered the penthouse, adjusting his cufflinks with practiced irritation. Every inch of his body ached from restraint, from the venomous exchange with his parents.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
Then he saw it—Noah.
Curled up on the couch in the hall. No blanket. No lights on. Just a flickering TV screen throwing pale light across the boy's face.
He was asleep, knees pulled up to his chest, his small frame trembling slightly as if caught in a memory he couldn't escape. He looked more like a ghost than a person, fragile and alone.
Alessio's eyes narrowed. The lights were on because Noah was scared of the dark. He remembered that much. He always kept his room's door cracked open, the glow from the hallway comforting him like a child afraid of monsters.
And tonight, there had been no hallway light.
Because Alessio hadn't come home.
The guilt crept in like smoke. Unwelcome. Unwanted.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, standing over the sleeping boy for a long time. Noah's hair was messy, his lashes long, his lips slightly parted.
Too trusting.
Too vulnerable.
With a quiet breath, Alessio turned and walked away.
But he didn't sleep.
---
Hours earlier, while Alessio sat with his family, Noah had sat curled on the couch, waiting.
He stared at the clock.
Midnight. No sign.
Then 1:00 a.m.
Then 2:00 a.m.
No message. No call. Not even a warning that he'd be late.
Noah hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the door. His chest ached—not with anger, but with something worse.
Disappointment.
He hated the dark. It was a childhood thing, maybe. The auction house had kept them locked in pitch-black cells, and every flicker of light had meant food or safety. Now, even luxury couldn't protect him from the memories.
So every night, he left his bedroom door slightly open.
Because Alessio's room was just beside his. And somehow, knowing the man was near—even if Alessio was cold and terrifying—made the dark less lonely.
But Alessio hadn't come home.
And Noah had tried not to cry.
He wandered into Alessio's room in the dark. It still smelled like him—sharp, clean, powerful. His pheromones lingered in the fabric like invisible protection. Without thinking, Noah pulled a shirt from the wardrobe and tugged it over his head. It was too big, swallowing him whole
But it helped.
It's now his habit.
It felt like armor.
Back in the hall, he sat on the couch and popped some popcorn, turning on the television just to fill the silence.
And then, finally, exhausted and afraid, he fell asleep.