Chapter 8: "Let's Go For A Picnic"
The rain hadn't started yet, but the sky outside had that muted, bruised tone that always came before a downpour. From the east wing of the Visalla estate, the gardens looked washed in dull silver, the hedges sharp against the dimming light. The air inside felt heavy, as if the whole house was holding its breath.
Nero sat at the edge of his bed, elbows resting loosely on his knees, staring at the polished wood floor as though answers might be hidden in the grain. He kept twisting the cuff of his shirt between his fingers — not fidgeting exactly, but pulling at the thread like he might unravel the whole thing.
The room around him was pristine but impersonal. High bookshelves lined one wall, their leather spines still stiff from disuse. The desk by the window was buried under expensive stationery sets, all untouched. There was no dust — the maids made sure of that — but it felt like a place where no one really lived.
The door swung open without a knock.
Salvatore Visalla stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the space. He wore a perfectly cut charcoal suit, the shine of his cufflinks catching the faint lamplight. His face carried that unreadable mask Nero knew so well — one that could shift into cold anger in the span of a breath.
Lucia followed a few steps behind, wrapped in a muted burgundy silk robe. Her dark hair was tied loosely at the back, strands framing a face that still held traces of the beauty that had once turned heads across the city. Her hands were clasped at her waist, fingers twisting together slowly.
Nero stood instantly, head inclined.
"Good evening, Father," he said, voice low.
Salvatore's reply came like a blade.
"Good evening," he repeated, and there was the faintest curve of mockery in it. "Do you think I am having a good evening?"
Nero opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced toward the armchair opposite his father, intending to sit.
"Stand up," Salvatore barked before Nero's weight touched the seat. The sharpness in his voice cut through the quiet room like a whipcrack.
Nero froze mid-motion, straightened.
"You bastard," Salvatore said, his voice rising now. "How can you mess up so badly? Do you have any idea how big a blunder you've made?"
Nero's gaze shifted, searching his mother's face for some signal. She looked away.
"I know," Nero said at last, his voice trembling despite his effort to keep it steady. "I… was distracted with my studies. Five million is not a big thing for the Visallas—"
Salvatore's jaw tightened like stone.
"You spoiled little fool. This isn't about the money. It's about responsibility." He stepped closer, his polished shoes soundless on the thick rug. "Do you think you can be the next successor with this kind of achievement? How can I even mention your name for the board seat?"
"I'm trying to track the lost assets—" Nero began, but his father cut him off with a harsh laugh.
"Track? Ashley has been doing that for you." His words dripped disdain.
Lucia's voice broke in, quiet but firm.
"Come on, Salvatore. He's still young. Give him a chance."
Salvatore turned on her slowly.
"Young? Michael was bringing in profits at his age. If it weren't for me holding back, he'd already be sitting on the board."
Nero's hands curled into fists at his sides. The words hit in that familiar place — the one that had been bruised so many times it was almost numb.
Salvatore reached for the tumbler on the side table, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. The scent of whiskey drifted across the space between them, sharp and lingering.
A knock came at the door.
"Come in," Salvatore called.
A butler entered, leaning down to murmur something in his ear. Whatever it was, it made Salvatore's face tighten, the mask slipping into raw fury.
"You fool," he spat at Nero. "Because of you, I now have even more problems."
In two strides he was in front of him, grabbing him by the collar. The slap came fast, a crack that echoed against the walls.
Lucia gasped, rushing forward, but Salvatore shoved Nero back — the edge of the desk caught the side of his head with a dull thud. Pain flashed white in his vision, and warm wetness began to trail down his temple.
Gianni appeared at the door — Nero's personal butler, his white hair combed neatly, his round face creased in worry.
"Take this fool away from my sight," Salvatore ordered.
Nero straightened himself just enough to walk out. His steps quickened down the corridor, not quite running but close.
The east wing was silent except for the muted ticking of the grandfather clock in the main hall. Every shadow in the long corridors seemed to stretch toward him.
Gianni caught up easily, pausing only to collect a small first-aid kit from the servants' quarters before following the path he knew by heart.
The Visalla library was nearly deserted. Rows of towering shelves loomed over them, the smell of aged paper and leather wrapping around like a blanket.
Nero sat slumped in the far corner by a rain-speckled window, knees drawn up, one hand pressed to his head. Tears streaked his face, but his eyes were fixed somewhere far beyond the glass.
"Sir," Gianni said softly, crouching beside him. "Let me clean that before it gets worse."
Nero didn't move.
Gianni opened the kit, gently pulling his hand away from the wound. As the antiseptic touched skin, Nero flinched but didn't protest.
"What did I do to deserve this?" Nero murmured, almost to himself. "All my life I've been compared to that bastard Michael. I didn't choose to be born… average."
"I know, sir," Gianni said, his tone patient.
"Every time I do something, it's not enough. Why did I have to be born into this family?"
Gianni's hands kept moving, precise and steady.
"Stop crying, sir. I've seen how hard you've tried."
Nero let out a short, bitter laugh. "When I was in seventh grade, I used to envy the normal boys in my class. They had families who went on picnics. No shouting. No deals. I wanted to be one of them."
"We can go on a picnic," Gianni said without looking up.
"You're the only one I like here," Nero said, voice quieter now. "Don't ever leave me."
"I won't," Gianni said simply.
Nero turned his head toward the window. "Look… it's raining again. I want to go outside."
"In the rain?"
"Yes."
"You'll get sick," Gianni said firmly. "Your exams are coming up."
"Please—"
"No. Let's go back to your room. The maid has prepared your bath."
Gianni stood and gently pulled Nero up by the hand. Together, they walked back through the quiet corridors.
---
The scene shifted.
Morning light streamed through the tall windows of Michael Visalla's bedroom. The air smelled faintly of fresh linen and expensive cologne. Michael stirred beneath the crisp white sheets, rubbing at his eyes before sitting up slowly.
The door opened, and his butler stepped in with a polished silver tray.
"Good morning, sir," he said, setting it on the side table.
Michael reached for his phone, the screen lighting his face. There was a message from Dante: Someone for the American kid is here.
He glanced up.
"Are there guests for me?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," the butler said. "I was just about to report — the Federal Minister of the UK and the American Ambassador to the UK are here."
Michael exhaled slowly.
"I see. Make them wait in the guest room. I'll come after breakfast."
"Of course, sir." The butler bowed slightly and left.
Michael set the phone aside, muttering to himself, "What a headache."
The day was only beginning.
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