March 26th, 1986 — Rome, Italy
Ferreti Residence
—Fatherhood never really suited you, —Andrea said dryly, arms crossed.
He was standing, leaning against the oak bookcase in the office. His golden eyes scanned Lorenzo from head to toe, slowly, like he was inspecting an old painting someone had left out in the sun too long.
Lorenzo was thirty-four, but time hung off his back like lead. Pale, with dark circles that looked tattooed in, and a permanent crease of fatigue between his brows. He looked more like a ghost than the eldest Ferreti son.
And more than anything, he looked like someone who'd stopped emitting any pheromone at all.
An alpha with no scent. No strength.
No presence.
Alessandro, sitting in one of the armchairs, elbowed Andrea like someone scolding a rude child —a gesture only a brother could get away with.
—It's an objective truth, —Lorenzo replied calmly, reclining into his leather chair. —But I wouldn't trade my children for anything.
Andrea narrowed his eyes.
—Are you… mentally okay?
Alessandro shook his head slowly, already knowing where this was going.
—I'm serious, —Andrea went on. —Do you even feel anything, Lorenzo? Or did you have your emotions removed along with your common sense? How do you think your wife —may she rest in peace— would feel knowing you're having a child now with her brother?
Lorenzo laced his fingers on the desk.
small grimace crossed his face —somewhere between irritation and apathy.
But more than anything, there was something else: total pheromonal control.
Not a trace of anxiety. Not even a hint of territorial scent.
That wasn't fun.
An alpha who didn't mark his space.
A Ferreti who didn't roar.
Andrea found it almost offensive.
Before he could push further, Alessandro cut in:
—We didn't come here to debate your moral compass, Andrea, —he said, his voice low but firm.
—We came because of what's happening this year.
Lorenzo nodded. He pulled a pen from the drawer, scribbled something on a notepad, then reached for a thick folder and tossed it onto the center of the desk.
Andrea caught it without effort.
—Documents were stolen, —Lorenzo said. —From inside. From my office at the Naples casino.
Andrea flipped through the folder with surgical precision. His brows furrowed.
His scent thickened —almost spicy.
—This wasn't random, —he said flatly. —It wasn't the work of some lone wolf. This was a coordinated team.
—Where are they coming from? —Alessandro asked, elbows on his knees.
Andrea didn't hesitate.
—Both sides. Corrupt cops. Desperate businessmen. Even omegas from minor families looking to climb. It makes sense. You can smell the hunger in the air.
Lorenzo studied him closely.
—Do you suspect anyone in particular?
Andrea placed his fingers gently on the table.
Truth was, there were too many names.
And they all had motive.
He knew them well —he'd crushed plenty.
—My contacts in the police say there's a Raven involved. One of the big ones, —he said finally.
—Someone's leaking from the top. But it's impossible to trace without bringing down half the structure with him.
Alessandro cleared his throat.
Looked away. His scent shifted slightly —tense, bitter pheromones.
Andrea picked up on it immediately.
—What if it's… Damián?
Andrea clicked his tongue.
—Of course. Makes sense.
—Don't say stupid shit, —Lorenzo cut in. —He's our brother. And you both know the most important rule in this family: not against blood.
Andrea rolled his eyes but didn't respond.
Alessandro ran a hand down the back of his neck.
—Damián is farther from this family than ever. He has this irrational hatred toward Andrea. And he's one of the biggest shareholders in the casinos. If anyone could break the system from the inside… it's him.
Lorenzo sighed.
—The hatred is justified, —he said matter-of-factly. —Andrea earned it. Honestly, I doubt anyone on this planet could stand him for more than three days.
Andrea raised an eyebrow, making a theatrical pout of fake sadness.
—So cruel, Lorenzo. You could try being nicer. I feel… wounded, —he intoned sarcastically.
Lorenzo didn't answer, but Andrea caught the subtle jaw movement.
Tension. Small, but real.
His body spoke more than his words ever did.
—Even so, —Andrea continued, —I won't rule out Damián's involvement. But I don't think he'd want to see the whole empire collapse. If he's in it… it's to remove someone.
Lorenzo stared at him.
—And that someone would be you?
Andrea shook his head with a cynical smile.
—I'd be the first. Then you and then Alessandro. One by one.
The silence dropped like a gunshot.
The office seemed to hold its breath —as if the walls knew that, in this family, order was biological,
…but betrayal was personal.
Outside, the wind rattled the garden trees.
A storm was building in the Roman sky.
Andrea narrowed his eyes.
He knew the walls had started to shake.
He knew someone —or more than one— had already taken the first step to bring him down.
But if they thought the King of the Ravens would fall that easily…
They were in for a surprise.
—And have you considered that little Bianchi might have something to do with this? —Lorenzo said, voice neutral, like someone tossing a stone in the air just to see where it lands.
Andrea raised an eyebrow. Alessandro sighed.
—Don't egg him on, Lorenzo, —he said, rolling his eyes. —You know how he gets with that topic.
Andrea shrugged, pulling a cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket.
He lit it slowly, as if the question bored him as much as the smoke he began to exhale.
—Highly unlikely Marco would get involved with any team trying to bring me down, —he finally replied, resting an arm on the back of the armchair. —If there's one thing that defines that alpha… it's hisego.
—I thought you hated each other, —Lorenzo muttered, crossing his arms.
—We do, —Andrea nodded. —But Marco needs every medal, every firework, every ounce of glory to have his name on it if he ever manages to destroy me. He won't share credit with anyone. Iknowhim. He smells like personal glory, not conspiracy.
—You two have a complicated relationship, —Lorenzo noted.
—It's a liability, —Alessandro added. —Now more than ever, we should be keeping the peace. The Bianchi and Ferreti names are tied together with Adriana's pregnancy. But you two still can't keep your hands off each other, huh?
Andrea scoffed, glancing down at the burning cigarette between his fingers.
—He's the Bianchi, not me, —he muttered. —I was willing to leave it all behind… but Marco never allowed it.
Alessandro gave a dry laugh, the kind that only surfaced when cynicism beat out affection.
—And now you're Saint Andrea? Please… like you didn't try to blow him up in Chicago. And Moscow? What was that? Apeaceoffering?
Andrea didn't respond.
The silence wasn't awkward —it was heavy.
Contained pheromones.
The scent of tobacco, tension, and hierarchies held in check by formality.
Then the office door burst open.
A pair of small sneakers stormed in with chaotic energy.
Félix, Lorenzo's eldest son, bolted straight into Andrea's arms.
—Uncle André!
Andrea crushed the cigarette with resignation, catching the child mid-air.
He lifted him with some awkwardness.
—Christ… —he muttered under his breath.
He hated kids. Couldn't stand them.
And yet, children always followed him like his scent calmed them.
Like his pheromones had some unexpectedly warm effect on tiny creatures.
Behind Félix came Ethan Miller —Lorenzo's husband and a visibly marked omega.
He walked slowly, a baby in his arms, looking so pale that Andrea couldn't decide whether to pity him or mock him.
Both instincts arrived at once.
—I'm here too, Félix, —Alessandro said, holding his arms out with a fake smile.
But Félix curled closer to Andrea's chest.
—I hadn't seen you in a long time.
Andrea looked at him like he was holding a live bomb.
Félix didn't look anything like Lorenzo. Blonde, yes, but his eyes were green —light, almost translucent— and his face was full of freckles. A soft, sweet child, smelling of nest and melted caramel.
Too unlike the Ferretis.
Too much of everything.
And yet, something in that face squeezed his chest.
With restrained abruptness, Andrea passed him to Alessandro's arms, who caught him with a light laugh.
—Sorry, —Ethan said, panting. —As soon as he picked up your scent, he ran straight here. I couldn't stop him.
—It's fine, —Lorenzo said with a faint smile. —You okay?
Ethan gave a half-laugh, the kind that sounded like a war-weary sigh.
—Is that a trick question?
Andrea looked at him for the first time with real attention.
If Lorenzo looked like a ghost, Ethan was already crossing into the underworld —in a bathrobe, and with bags under his eyes.
Hair disheveled, eyes sunken, shirt stained with milk. But he still held that serene, stubborn air omegas get when they're hormonally wrecked and still managing to carry the house, the baby, and the family name.
—Ah yes… —Ethan said, stepping closer. —Let me officially introduce your new nephew. Ian Ferreti.
Andrea gave a faint nod.
The baby, bald with a few dark strands, stared at him wide-eyed.
Golden eyes.
Andrea frowned.
Said nothing.
Then the baby, as if designed specifically to piss him off, reached out and gripped his finger tightly.
Andrea stared at it.
Soft skin. Clumsy pressure. A dumb little smile on the baby's face.
—Perfect, —Andrea muttered with a fake grimace of disgust.
The others laughed.
Even Lorenzo.
Even Alessandro.
And though Andrea would never admit it, a crack opened inside him.
Small. Imperceptible.
It smelled like warm milk, afternoon sun…
and a full moon reflected in a forgotten river