Kyan sat in the dungeon, bruises dark and raw across his face and hands.
His shirt was torn at the shoulder, and dried blood clung to his lip. He looked tired—like he hadn't slept in days. His eyes stared blankly at the wall, body still from the weight of it all.
The heavy metal door creaked open. Boots echoed in the quiet space.
Nico walked in slowly, holding a small tray of food in one hand and a first aid box in the other. His black coat flowed behind him, and his face was unreadable. He looked at the guard.
"Give us a minute," Nico said.
The guard hesitated, then nodded and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Kyan blinked. "You're back to finish the job?" he asked quietly, voice rough.
Nico didn't answer right away. He set the tray down, crouched beside Kyan, and opened the aid box.
"No," he said finally. "I came to patch you up."
Kyan let out a dry laugh, wincing from the pain. "Didn't know execution came with dinner and a bandage."
Nico didn't smile. He dipped a cloth in antiseptic and gently touched the cut on Kyan's brow. Kyan flinched but didn't pull away.
Kyan didn't say a word as Nico gently wiped the blood off his cheek. His touch was careful, slow… and too soft for a Luciano. For a king.
"You don't have to do this," Kyan whispered, his voice shaking more than he wanted it to. "I'm your prisoner."
Nico looked at him then—really looked. Their eyes locked, and for a second, it was like the world outside that dungeon didn't exist.
"I know," Nico murmured. "But I watched your eyes back there… and they didn't look like the eyes of someone who wanted to poison us. They looked scared. Hurt. Real."
Kyan swallowed hard. "So what now? You'll patch me up and kill me later?"
Nico didn't answer that. Instead, he reached into the tray and handed Kyan a piece of bread.
Their fingers brushed.
Kyan's breath caught in his throat. Nico's eyes flicked to the touch, lingered… but then he looked away too quickly.
"You should eat," Nico said, almost too quietly.
Kyan stared at him. "Why are you being nice to me?"
Nico stood, brushing his coat down. "That's the problem. I don't know."
Then, before Kyan could say anything, Nico walked to the door and knocked.
But not before glancing back once—long, lingering, and with something heavy in his chest that neither of them wanted to name just yet.
God, it was dangerous.
God, it was starting.
Outside the dungeon, a shadow leaned against the cold stone wall.
Guard Romano.
The same bitter, stone-faced man who once ruled the training grounds with an iron fist. The same man whose daughter Nico had rejected—publicly—at the Mafia Prom six years ago. The wound had never healed. Not for her. Not for him. And now?
Now he had seen something. Something… juicy.
His brows furrowed as he chewed the inside of his cheek. Nico… patching up a prisoner? Feeding him? And the look in his eyes?
Romano didn't need a priest to spell it out. That wasn't the kind of look a king should have for a traitor. That was personal.
Oh, this would shake the walls of the Luciano empire.
He chuckled under his breath, low and bitter. "Let's see how long your crown stays, prince."
This? This was gold.
And soon, the whole Mafia world would know.
Guard Romano didn't waste another second.
His heavy boots slammed against the hallway floors as he ran through the mansion like a madman, pushing past other guards and servants who gave him strange looks. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from the thrill of what he was about to expose.
He reached the Don's study, barely catching his breath as he banged the door open.
"Boss! I saw something—" he blurted out, chest heaving.
The Don, seated behind his grand desk, looked up slowly, his eyes calm but dangerous. A cigar burned between his fingers.
"You barge in here like a fool, Romano. Speak."
Romano stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was revealing the secret of the century. "It's Nico, boss. I saw him. In the dungeon. With that prisoner."
The Don didn't blink.
Romano leaned in, eyes wide. "He was cleaning his wounds… feeding him. Like he cared or something."
Silence.
Romano smirked. "If the council hears about this... they'll think he's weak. Or worse—compromised."
The Don's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
Romano stood straighter, proud. "The crown might be too soft for him, boss. I warned you."
A dangerous silence hung in the air.
And the fire that lit behind the Don's eyes?
It wasn't the kind you survived.
The Don slammed his fist against the desk, making everything on it jump. His voice thundered through the walls.
"Get me my damn heir!" he barked. "Now!"
The guards outside the door flinched, then scrambled like scared mice.
"Go get me Nico!" he yelled again, his eyes blazing. "Bring him here before I lose what's left of my patience!"
One guard nearly tripped trying to turn fast enough, already sprinting down the hall to find the new Mafia king.
Inside the room, Romano stood still, trying not to smirk.
But deep down, even he knew—this wasn't going to end pretty.
The door opened slowly.
Nico strolled in like nothing was wrong, hands in his pockets, calm as ever. His shirt was still half unbuttoned, his hair a little messy, like he'd just woken up from a nap. But one look at the Don's face, and the air shifted.
The Don stood still, arms crossed, eyes sharp like a blade. "You're getting too soft, son," he said coldly. "You think you're king now, so you can play nice with prisoners?"
Nico didn't answer.
The Don didn't wait. He turned, pulled out something from behind his desk—and slammed it on the table. A thick, worn leather whip.
Nico's heart skipped.
His eyes locked on it, and for a second, he wasn't in that office anymore—he was ten, knees on the floor, crying, back burning, trying not to scream. That same whip had carved the scar still hidden beneath his shirt. One he never forgot.
His voice cracked a little. "Dad… I'm grown. I'm not a boy anymore."
"I'm the king now," Nico said, standing taller. "You can't do that to me."
The Don's eyes narrowed. "Then prove it."
Nico blinked. "How?"
The Don stepped closer, shoved the whip aside.
"Execute that traitor. Today."