Nico stepped into the kitchen, the cold click of his shoes echoing across the tiled floor.
The air shifted instantly. Every chef, maid, and staff member stood frozen like statues—backs straight, eyes down. No one dared meet his gaze. Looking straight at Nico Luciano without permission was like asking for death.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing red as smoke curled around his sharp jawline.
Silvio, the oldest chef in the mansion, stood in front. Nico looked him up and down, exhaling smoke right in his direction.
"You've been in this kitchen longer than I've been alive," Nico said casually, voice smooth but biting. "Which means you know what's allowed… and what's deadly."
He flicked ash to the floor. "So tell me—how the hell did something the Don's allergic to end up in his plate?"
Silvio stiffened. "Boss, I… I double-checked everything. I swear on my life—"
Nico's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, grabbing the chopping board and smashing it to the floor. Everyone jumped.
"You swear on your life?" Nico echoed, deadly calm. "Then tell me—who's the rat?"
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Another drag from the cigarette.
Then Silvio's voice cracked through the silence.
"That boy," he hissed, pointing with a trembling hand. "That Kyan kid. I never trusted him!
The others slowly nodded, murmurs rising.
"He barely speaks…"
"Always watching…"
"What if he's a spy—sent by the Massimos…?"
Silvio took the chance and stepped forward. "Boss, think about it. The Lucianos have been hunted for years. Your enemies are smart. You really think they won't send someone in through the servants? Maybe he's been waiting. Watching. Studying your allergies. That's the only way they could know."
Nico didn't say a word.
He just stood there, smoke curling from his lips, eyes flicking across every face in the room.
Then, he let out a soft chuckle—dark, dangerous.
"Interesting theory," he said finally.
He walked up to Silvio, leaned close, and whispered,
"Let's just hope for your sake… you're not the one lying to me."
Silvio stepped forward with his wrinkled hands raised slightly, eyes glassy, voice low but shaking.
"I've been working here since your father married your mother," he said, almost like a plea. "I've served this family with everything in me, boss. I raised you boys through every meal—every celebration, every bloody war. I'd never do something like this. Never."
The room went still again.
Nico didn't respond. He just stood there, staring at Silvio with those sharp,eyes. The kind that made your soul feel like it was under a knife.
Then he took one last drag of his cigarette, tossed the butt on the floor, crushed it slowly with his boot, and turned around.
No words. No expression.
He walked out of the kitchen—silently.
Nico stormed into his wing, the door slamming shut behind him like thunder. He peeled off his coat, tossed it over the arm of a leather chair, and walked straight to the window. The night was cold, but he didn't feel it. His brain was on fire.
He lit another cigarette, exhaled slow, and stared out.
"They're lying," he muttered. "Someone's lying."
His jaw clenched. He couldn't stop seeing Kyan's bruised face… the tears… that broken voice.
And then there was Silvio.
That speech. That damn speech. It was too perfect. Too emotional. Too timed.
He spun around and grabbed a notepad from the drawer. His fingers worked fast, scribbling.
Luciano Rule #4: Only someone from inside knows our allergies.
Luciano Rule #7: When in doubt, go back to the kitchen.
"Silvio's been here the longest," Nico whispered, narrowing his eyes. "He knows too much. He's seen too much. And if anyone could make it look like Kyan messed up, it's him."
He ran a hand through his hair, thinking.
"What if this isn't about food at all? What if it's about war?"
He started pacing.
Then he paused, snapped his fingers, and smirked. "Let's play a little game."
He picked up the house intercom and pressed the button.
"Dino, send all the kitchen staff out for the night. Tell 'em to rest. Full pay."
He dropped the intercom, stepped over to his hidden drawer, and pulled out a small black box. Inside—tiny surveillance bugs. Real tiny.
He grabbed five.
"I'll plant one under the main pantry shelf. One in Silvio's spice rack. One in the cold room. One near the knives. And one in the wine cellar entrance."
Then he looked at the last one.
"And this one goes on Silvio's apron hook."
He was done playing soft.
He needed the truth—and he was going to bleed it out, inch by inch.
This time, no one was getting away.
Not even family.
Nico worked in silence like a lion in the shadows. Every step was smooth, silent, and planned.
One by one, he planted the bugs in their spots—hidden where no one would even think to look. No security cam. No witness. Just him and the truth waiting to be caught.
Then he left the kitchen quietly, locking the doors behind him.
It was almost midnight when Nico returned to his wing, slipped into his black chair, and picked up the small listening device. He lit another cigarette, placed the bug receiver on the table, and leaned back.
Nothing at first.
Just silence.
Then footsteps. The creak of the pantry door. A soft curse.
Nico didn't even blink.
Silvio's voice came through.
Whispering.
Panicking.
"God… God, please… I hope they never find out."
Nico leaned forward.
"I've been the one poisoning the food all along. They'll think it's Kyan. Or the new ones. They'll kill them all."
He said it so calmly, like he wasn't talking about real blood.
"No one deserves to be here but me. I've earned this place. I built it. I served longer than anyone. If I can't run this house… no one will."
Nico's eyes turned stone cold. His hand crushed the cigarette into the ashtray without looking.
Then the worst part.
Silvio laughed.
"They all trust me. Especially that soft-hearted king. Nico. Hah. You think you're your father? You're not even half of him."
Nico stood up. The air in the room shifted.
At that exact moment… every single speaker in the Luciano Villa—from the guards' quarters to the training grounds—crackled to life.
Silvio's voice echoed.
"I've been the one poisoning the food—"
"They'll kill them all—"
"No one deserves to be here but me—"
"Especially that soft-hearted king. Nico."
The entire mansion froze.
Gasps. Shouts. Dishes shattered in the servants' hall. Footsteps echoed. Guards grabbed their weapons. And in the middle of the kitchen—Silvio dropped the spoon in his hand, his face pale.
He looked around like he just saw a ghost.
Nico, on the other end, was already moving.
Gun in hand.
Coat back on.
No more mercy.
This time—he was his father's son.