Three hours after Lucien went missing.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN LUCIEN IS NOT ON THE BOAT?!"
Salvatore's furious voice echoed through the drawing room like a thunderclap. He slammed the table so hard that a photo frame of him and his grandsons toppled over, the glass clinking against the wood.
Veins bulged at his temples: not only from anger, but from the gnawing anxiety in his chest.
Lucien's plan was far too reckless for him to stomach. The Don could have simply crushed his enemies with brute force: killed his treacherous stepbrother, declared war on Dominus and Lunox, and been done with it.
He was certain Luceros would never lose. Those rival groups were nothing but grains of salt compared to their power.
But when his grandson showed him the documents exposing Vincent's betrayal, there had been something in his eyes… that quiet determination, that pain. His voice may have been steady, his posture calm, but his eyes had told the truth.
'Eyes never lie.'
That was why Salvatore had agreed to this ridiculous, dangerous plan in the first place. This wasn't just a strategic move, it was personal.
He understood that much. Even if Lucien and Vincent were only stepbrothers, the boy clearly felt something more, no matter how he tried to deny it.
Vincent had stood behind Salvatore for nearly ten years, supporting him in ways his own grandfather couldn't.
'So why did he suddenly stab his master in the back?'
Even Obscura and Hound, standing before him now, couldn't make sense of it.
"We're sorry, Don Salvatore," Obscura said, bowing his head.
"Ben sent an emergency message from the boat. Even the Leopard and his men are confused, they're already on their way to search for him."
"WHAT?! THAT MORON!"
The Basilisk surged to his feet, his age doing nothing to dull the ferocity in his movement.
"You!" he barked, pointing at Hound. "Mobilize our men. Find him!"
Hound stiffened. "With all due respect, Don Salvatore, we can't possibly do that. If we move now, we'll interfere with Servei's plan and it will—"
He didn't finish.
Salvatore snatched the glass from the table and hurled it at his face. Water splashed over Hound's hair and cheek as the glass shattered on impact, leaving a thin red line trickling down his temple.
"Did you just refuse my order?!" Salvatore roared.
"Do it, you idiot! That plan was already ruined the moment Lucien arrogantly came to me with that ridiculous proposal for revenge!"
His voice echoed through the vast room again, raw and commanding.
Hound and the others lowered their heads, but none of them moved. Their loyalty to Servei's orders outweighed their fear of the Basilisk.
Salvatore saw it clearly in their eyes.
But he didn't care about their loyalty. He didn't care about strategy or plans anymore. All he wanted was to move—now—and find his grandson.
He had no intention of losing his blood to someone else's power game.
However, just as the Basilisk prepared to move, the two men stepped in front of him, blocking his path without a word. Their movements were synchronized making Salvatore's eye twitch in irritation.
"Tell me," his voice dropped low, "do you wish for death?"
The pressure in the room spiked like a storm crashing down. His alpha aura exploded outward, overwhelming and suffocating. Obscura and Hound staggered as if the air itself had turned to lead.
Their lungs burned, their faces drained of color. Within seconds, both men were forced to their knees. It felt like ten tons of stone were crushing their bodies, like death itself was pressing down on their spines.
This was the terror of Salvatore. The Basilisk.
Then, a soft knock on the door.
The sound sliced through the tension like a knife. Salvatore's gaze snapped toward it, and the two men finally gasped for air, coughing lightly as their bodies trembled.
"You're lucky this time. Come in."
The door opened, and his other grandson, Dante, stepped in with a grave expression.
"They found Lucien," he said curtly.
Salvatore let out a sharp breath of relief, but Dante's next words froze him.
"Why did you hide this from me? Is it because I'm just the child of your daughter?"
The words cut like a blade. The Basilisk shook his head slowly.
"It's not that," he said after a pause. "Let's talk privately."
***
They moved to the drawing room. The atmosphere was tense, heavy with unspoken truths.
Salvatore sat back on the sofa, sipping his coffee with a practiced elegance that betrayed none of the turmoil in his mind. He was weighing his words carefully. He had to.
The truth was… his family was in shambles. He had only five families left under his name, and most wanted nothing to do with the Luceros anymore. And he understood why.
He had been a terrible father. Cold, towering, distant, a wall no one could climb.
With his late wife, he had two sons and one daughter. Bianca, his only girl, had been the one he loved most. He'd kept her away from the famiglia, determined to keep her safe.
But she'd taken it as an insult, a denial of her worth as an alpha. It wounded her pride deeply, and in her eyes, it had been betrayal. She'd walked away from the family not long after.
His second son had died years ago, poisoned under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind a widow and daughter now under his protection.
While his brothers and sister are all dead. Except one, but he was a lost cause.
And then, two years ago, Dante—only twenty at the time—had appeared at his door and declared that he wanted to join the group.
It had shocked Salvatore to his core. He'd known something must have happened between Dante and Bianca, but he hadn't pried. He'd simply accepted the boy.
Now, sitting across from his grandson, he felt the weight of his past pressing on his chest like an old wound reopening.
Salvatore cleared his throat.
"I'll tell you part of our plan, Dante. But first, you need to understand something. There were reasons you were kept in the dark. One of them is that you're still new to this world. I hope… you can understand."
Dante exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup. He stared down at his reflection in the dark liquid.
"I know. I just don't want to be treated like an outsider, Don Salvatore. I want you to see me as someone you can trust."
His voice wavered—just slightly—but it was enough to pierce through the old man's armor.
"It's hard," Dante continued.
"Even Lucien still doubts me. He uses me when it suits him, but I can't complain. I'm just a low-ranking member. All I can do is learn… and wait for the chance to prove myself."
Salvatore leaned back into the sofa, rubbing his temple as a familiar, throbbing frustration surfaced, the same one he'd felt thirty-five years ago when trying to speak with his children, only to be met with anger and disappointment they never voiced directly.
'I'll never be good at this,' he thought bitterly.