The oak doors opened again with a groan, and the dining room fell silent.
Dylan Dicosta stepped inside, the weight of his presence pulling the air down with him. His cane tapped lightly against the marble, echoing like a judge's gavel.
Alikae froze mid-motion, her fists still resting against Rodey's chest. Her lips trembled with curses she hadn't yet spat, her eyes red and angry but filled with something more fragile underneath. Rodey's hands hovered near her shoulders, his body caught in the storm between her mocking defiance and the truth he had confessed.
Deniz leaned back lazily in his chair, his boots still on the table, a smirk on his lips. He whistled low, almost as if enjoying a private joke.
"Well," Dylan's voice cut the air, smooth but heavy, "how beautiful you lovebirds are. Such raw fire in such a fragile little room."
Rodey stiffened, his jaw locking. Alikae glared up at Dylan, her eyes burning, but Dylan only turned his gaze to Rodey, ignoring her.
"You thought I'd leave you alone? That I'd give you space?" He shook his head slowly, sipping from his glass. "No, my boy. This is only the beginning."
Deniz chuckled, tossing a grape into his mouth. "Careful, boss. You just loaded a gun with two bullets. Now you'll have to pull the trigger."
Alikae snapped at him, her voice sharp: "That's not funny, Deniz!"
Deniz raised his palms innocently, though his grin never faded. "Just a joke."
But Dylan wasn't laughing. He set his glass down, the sound sharp against polished wood, and leaned forward. His eyes never left Rodey.
"Finally," he murmured, almost to himself, "the moment came I was waiting for."
The words coiled in the room like smoke, thick and poisonous, leaving a silence that felt heavier than chains.
Dylan leaned back in his chair, letting the silence thicken before he spoke. His tone softened, though his smile never lost its edge.
"You know, Flash," he said, eyes flicking toward Alikae, "this fiery girl you guard so closely… she isn't truly yours to guard. She was mine long before."
Rodey's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak. He just narrowed his eyes.
Dylan continued, voice almost nostalgic. "Years ago, I found her on the roadside. Starving. Broken. Left to die like an unwanted dog. I gave her a roof, a name, a chance to live."
The weight of the words hung in the room. Rodey turned to Alikae, searching for any trace of disbelief or shock—but her expression was calm, sharp as always.
"I already knew," Alikae said, cutting the silence herself. "He told me before. I wasn't born into his family… but I survived because of him."
Rodey leaned back slowly, exhaling through his nose. His eyes lingered on Alikae with something unreadable—concern, perhaps frustration, but not surprise.
"So you knew," he murmured. His voice was quiet, but it carried an edge. "And you kept it."
Alikae smirked faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "What, you wanted me to sit and cry about it? I don't care whose blood runs in me. I care that I'm still standing."
Dylan's gaze sharpened, his voice low but certain. "She was raised under my rules, molded by my world. Whatever she has become, she owes to me. Don't forget that, Rodey."
Rodey finally met Dylan's stare. He didn't slam the table, didn't raise his voice. Instead, he spoke with a quiet certainty.
"She doesn't owe you. Not anymore."
Deniz, lounging in his chair, broke into a grin. "Now that's a line worth drinking to."
The room had settled into a heavy silence after Dylan's revelation about Alikae. Rodey leaned back in his chair, arms folded, expression unreadable. Dylan studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his words measured like a verdict.
"You know, Rodey…" Dylan's tone was calm, almost casual, but his eyes gleamed with intent. "After the marriage, after the dust clears, you will not just be a man with a scarred past. You'll be seated where power breathes. You'll be King in Diamond."
The words struck the table harder than any fist could.
Rodey's brow furrowed, but he didn't flinch. "King? That sounds like a cage built of gold."
Dylan smirked, lifting his glass, letting the amber light catch in it. "Call it what you want. But the truth is, kingdoms aren't taken—they're given. And I'm offering you the Diamond throne."
Alikae's eyes darted between them, tension sharp in her shoulders. Deniz let out a low whistle, leaning forward with interest.
"Now that's a twist," Deniz said, smirking. "Flash, a King? Didn't think you were the type to wear a crown."
Rodey's gaze never left Dylan. His voice was steady, almost cold. "And why me?"
Dylan leaned in, his smile turning razor-sharp. "Because, Rodey… you're dangerous enough to rule. And loyal enough to bleed for those you care about. That combination is rarer than diamonds themselves."
Silence again. Heavy. Thick. Alikae's lips parted, like she wanted to speak—but no words came.
Rodey finally tilted his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "Careful, Dylan. Crowns weigh more than bullets."
Dylan chuckled low, swirling his glass. "And yet… bullets can't rule. But crowns can."
Dylan placed his glass down with a soft clink, his gaze shifting from Rodey to Deniz. For a moment, he seemed to measure the young man with a rare seriousness.
"Rodey," Dylan said quietly, almost like a whisper meant to cut through steel, "when I make you King in Diamond, you won't learn the throne from me."
Rodey's eyes narrowed. "Then from who?"
Dylan's lips curved, the faintest smile. He tilted his chin toward Deniz.
"From him."
The room froze. Alikae blinked in confusion, her mouth parting. Rodey scoffed, a sharp laugh breaking the silence. "Him? The clown who cracks dirty jokes and eats like a starving wolf? That's your teacher of power?"
Deniz raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. "Ouch, Flash. That hurt. You wound me more than bullets."
But Dylan didn't laugh. His tone was stone.
"Don't mistake appearances for truth. Deniz may look like a fool, but his mind…" Dylan tapped his temple, "is sharper than a blade. His IQ, his instincts, his fighting skill… Rodey, even I couldn't match him in my prime."
Rodey's smirk faded. His eyes shifted to Deniz, searching, testing. For the first time, he truly looked at him—not as a nuisance, not as a fool, but as something hidden in plain sight.
Deniz leaned back, folding his arms casually, a sly grin on his lips. "Heh. You finally told him, old man. I was starting to think you'd keep me in the shadows forever."
Rodey's jaw tightened, torn between disbelief and the uneasy truth glowing in Dylan's words.
"So," Rodey muttered, voice low, "the fool was the master all along."
Deniz winked. "Lesson number one, King-to-be: the sharpest knife is the one you never see until it's at your throat."
The dining room fell silent again, but this silence was different. Heavy not with tension— but with realization.
The dining room faded from Dylan's mind. The laughter, the glances, even Rodey's disbelief—all drowned in the heavy shadows of memory.
He closed his eyes. The glass of wine in his hand trembled slightly as his thoughts carried him back.
That night… the blood on the marble floors of Dicosta estate. His uncle's blade flashing in the dark. His father's body collapsing before his young eyes.
Dylan had run until his lungs burned, until the city itself seemed endless. Rain lashed down like punishment. And then—he remembered—the light of a lantern.
Ali Vefa.
The man's voice was steady, almost too calm for the storm around them. "Boy, why are you wandering the streets like death is chasing you?"
Dylan had no answer. His throat was raw, his soul cracked open. He could only stare at the man who towered above him, his police coat drenched in rain.
Ali's sharp eyes softened just enough to see the truth. A child lost, broken, carrying a name that weighed too much.
He didn't ask for Dylan's past. He didn't care for the surname "Dicosta." He simply placed a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder and said—
"Come. Tonight, you're not alone. You'll stay with me."
Dylan remembered how strange it felt. Not safety—no, safety was alien to him—but warmth. For the first time since his father's death, he wasn't running.
Ali Vefa took him home, gave him food, gave him a blanket. And when Dylan resisted, trembling with pride and anger, Ali only chuckled.
"Strong boy," he said. "But even strong boys need a roof. You'll break otherwise."
That night, Dylan realized something terrifying. Love could exist without blood.
And though he never spoke it—though he buried it under years of silence—he owed Ali his life.
Ali never pushed him. Never asked questions. Instead, he left warm bread by his side and spoke to him as though Dylan were already his own son.
But on the fourth day, Ali appeared with papers. White sheets, stamped with the emblem of the state.
"Read," Ali said, placing them on the table.
Dylan blinked at the words, his heart pounding. Adoption Certificate.
"From today onward," Ali continued, "you're not Dicosta. You're Dylan Vefa. My son."
For the first time since his father's death, Dylan's chest tightened not with grief but with something unfamiliar—hope. Still, his pride fought against it.
"Why?" Dylan rasped. His voice was weak, unused. "Why would you… do this for me? You don't even know me."
Ali's gaze didn't waver. "Because I saw a boy who needed saving. And if I didn't give you a new name, your old one would destroy you. Sometimes, saving means cutting ties to blood."
The words sank into Dylan's bones. He lowered his eyes, his hands trembling as he touched the paper. His name—Dylan Vefa. No longer Dicosta.
Ali placed a hand on his shoulder. "Remember, son… blood makes you related. Choice makes you family."
That night, Dylan wept silently under a new blanket, clutching the adoption paper as though it were a shield. He promised himself—if fate ever gave him the chance, he would do the same for another lost soul.
Ali gave Dylan a new roof, a new name, and papers that proved he was family. For the first time in his life, Dylan felt like maybe—just maybe—he belonged somewhere.
But belonging didn't come softly. It came with Hussain.
Ali's real son was quick, clever, and too full of energy for one house to contain. From the very first day, Hussain treated Dylan not like a brother… but like a toy.
"Oi, adopted!" Hussain would yell, tackling him to the ground without warning. "You're my punching bag now. Best warm up before I hit the streets."
Dylan groaned, rolling over as Hussain jabbed at him with playful punches, fast as lightning. Sometimes it hurt, sure, but Hussain always laughed with it—never cruel, always challenging.
"You'll thank me one day," Hussain smirked, pinning him down after another sparring match. "Who else would train you for free, huh?"
It wasn't training. Not really. But Dylan learned anyway—how to move, how to take a hit, how to read Hussain's speed. And every time he got knocked down, he got back up just a little quicker.
Over time, the bruises became a bond. Dylan realized that Hussain's so-called "abuse" was really the only language he knew for brotherhood.
At night, when the chaos settled, Hussain would toss an arm around Dylan's shoulder and grin. "Don't get soft on me, Dylan. If we're gonna carry Dad's name, we gotta be tough. Together."
Dylan said nothing, but inside… he felt it. A strange warmth. He wasn't just a guest anymore.
For the first time, Dylan wasn't just someone's burden.
He was someone's brother.
The clink of glasses faded as Dylan sat back in his chair at the dining table. His eyes weren't on the food before him—nor on Rodey, nor Alikae, nor even Deniz, who lounged carelessly with his usual grin.
They were on the voices.
Rodey and Deniz had slipped into their usual rhythm again—bickering, snapping, one throwing words like knives, the other deflecting with jokes. To anyone else, it was noise. To Dylan, it was memory.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass.
Hussain…
That same spark. That same fire between brothers who weren't really brothers, but something more. A bond built in bruises, sharpened by laughter, hidden under mockery.
Hussain had been wild, fast, impossible to control. And Dylan, always chasing, always learning. They'd clashed daily, but under it all, they were inseparable.
And now, watching Rodey snap at Deniz, watching Deniz laugh it off like Hussain once did—
It was as though time folded back on itself.
For a heartbeat, Dylan wasn't the feared King of Diamonds.
He was just a boy again, standing in the backyard with Hussain, fists raised, heart pounding, learning how to fight against the brother who taught him everything.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
You're still here, Hussain. In ways they'll never know.
But the warmth didn't last. Just as quickly, Dylan's gaze hardened again.
Because ghosts don't keep you alive.
And in this world, memories were as dangerous as weakness.
The dining hall fell silent, the air tight enough to choke. Dylan's voice carried no hesitation as he placed his goblet down.
"My reign is ending," he said, calm but unyielding. "Tonight, I declare my retirement."
The words cracked like thunder.
Rodey stiffened, Alikae's fork slipped from her hand, and even the guards shifted uneasily.
But Deniz—Deniz only laughed. A sharp, mocking laugh that echoed against marble walls. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, smirk tugging at his lips.
"The mad old man retiring? Don't tease us like that, Dylan," Deniz said, wiping at an imaginary tear. "If you were really stepping down, you'd be tossing Rodey into a pit of lava before letting him take your crown."
He flicked his eyes toward Rodey, grin widening.
"And besides," he added, almost singing the words, "if Rodey ever sat on the throne, there are already Jackals waiting to climb up. Hungry little dogs, scratching at the palace gates, just waiting for him to slip."
The laugh that followed was jagged, too loud, hiding something fragile underneath. Fear.
Dylan did not laugh. He didn't even look at Deniz. He simply stared into the depth of his wine glass, its reflection hiding his eyes.
The room drowned in tension—Rodey's anger boiling, Deniz's smirk fading thin, Alikae frozen between them.
And as the silence settled, it became clear—
Dylan's announcement was not just a choice.
It was a warning.