The moment Alessandro stepped across the threshold, Luca offered a subtle smile—one that hinted he was, in some twisted way, entertained by how things were unfolding.
"Then, I'll leave the two of you to speak… at your leisure."
He bowed with impeccable politeness, then quietly slipped out of the parlor, leaving behind a silence thick enough to bite through.
A beat passed.
"You've grown."
Alessandro's nod was slight, impassive.
But his eyes told another story—like someone prying open an old, dust-laden chest only to find a relic they'd forgotten how to feel about.
There was discomfort there… and a strange, reluctant curiosity.
"To be frank,"
he began, voice cool and unhurried,
"when George insisted on adopting that small child from a filthy, unwed Oriental girl, I laughed for days. I couldn't imagine what he'd ever do with a thing like that. But…"
A crooked smirk twisted the corner of his mouth.
"You turned out to be surprisingly… well-trained."
In that single line festered a rancid cocktail of racism, classist arrogance, and the icy disdain of a man who fancied himself a god.
He leaned forward, drawing his chair in with deliberate slowness.
His voice dropped to a thick, heavy tone—like a predator drawing close to prey, savoring the space between the pounce and the kill.
"I've heard. You've been sniffing around… digging into us."
There was a smile, yes—but only on his lips.
His eyes had gone razor-sharp.
"As family, I could overlook it. Once."
Then, the warmth vanished.
"But even family… has lines they must not cross. George left this house the day he took that vulgar woman's Langley name—and he never once dared return. He understood the rule."
Each word that followed landed like a stone laid over a grave.
"The Bellonis have rules. And if you cross that line—then I'm afraid, blood or not, you're no longer one of us."
He noticed the subtle shift in Celeste's expression—a flicker, brief but telling.
His voice dropped again, softer now, but sharper, like a needle slipping beneath skin.
"Mark my words. You won't be the only one who pays the price."
His smile now was cold—glacial and merciless.
"That bastard—George. The one who dared wash your filthy little body, who dared clothe you like a daughter. I still remember the day he walked through this estate's doors, hand in hand with that woman. The audacity still stinks in my memory."
He spat out the final words, not with fury, but with an old and well-tended hatred.
"Use that clever mind of yours wisely. If you insist on choosing the other side, I won't stop you. In fact, I'll be grateful. You'll give me the perfect excuse… to deal with that bastard once and for all."
Then, as if the threat had never left his lips, he reclined against the chair, the predator once more disguised as a gentleman.
"No need to answer now. You'll be staying here for a while—consider it a chance to reflect. Luca will show you to your room. I've made sure you'll be comfortable."
A moment of stillness.
And then, with a voice low and echoing like the growl of an ancient beast returning to the hunt, he added—
"Well then. I have a hunt to finish."
He stood.
And just like that, the black lion turned and walked away.