The winter air bit at his throat with every breath.
Under a sky the color of wet ash, the Belloni gates stood closed, tall as a fortress.
Luca held on to his mother's hand, feeling the cold of her skin through her glove.
Two guards in black uniforms stopped them, looked over the papers, and exchanged a silent glance before one gave a curt nod.
The gates swung open with a low, tired groan from the hinges.
Beyond, a gravel path stretched long between two lines of firs, their branches swaying and whispering against the wind.
His mother's grip tightened.
"Don't be nervous,"
she said under her breath.
"And don't say a word."
Luca only nodded.
The crunch of gravel under his shoes was the only sound he carried forward.
The house rose ahead—three stories of Tuscan stone, its marble steps gleaming faintly in the pale light.
At the top stood a woman, already watching them.
Her eyes were sharp and cold, her lips drawn into a smile that didn't reach them.
"So. You've arrived," she said.
Her voice was low, smooth, and entirely without warmth.
Her gaze passed over Luca as though he were an afterthought, something brought in without an invitation.
Inside, the hearth burned, but the warmth didn't belong to the people.
Even the air here seemed sharpened, as if every smile could cut.
"Luca, go on—say hello,"
his mother murmured.
Footsteps came down the stairs.
Marco—eighteen, already with the frame and face of a grown man.
Behind him, Bianca—just a year older than Luca, her eyes bright and intent.
Marco stopped in front of him.
"So… you're the little brother," he said.
His tone carried no surprise, no welcome—only the thin curve of a smile that weighed him from above.
Bianca tilted her head slightly.
"They said you came from Rome. Must've been cold on the way here."
Her voice was soft enough, but Luca felt the thread of curiosity tangled with something more cautious.
Dinner waited along a table that seemed to go on forever.
Candles trembled in their holders; silverware stamped with the family crest sat beside crystal glasses that caught the light.
Luca and his mother were shown to the far end.
When the tea came, the mistress's smile returned—pleasant on the surface, and nothing more.
"That tea… would you pour it for me?"
The words were polite. The tone was not.
His mother lowered her eyes, rose without a sound, and made the long walk around the table to fill the porcelain cup.
No one stopped their conversations.
Marco sipped wine, speaking only to Bianca.
The father's chair stayed empty.
Luca set his fork down.
Steam thinned from his soup, drifting away into the cool air.
He watched his mother's hands—careful, deliberate, like someone performing a service.
When he dropped his gaze again, a thought came to him, quiet and unshakable.
What stirred in him wasn't pity.
It wasn't sorrow.
It was something colder.
A clear, hard thought that slid into place and would not leave:
In this world, without power, your name means nothing.
It settled deep inside him, cold and sharp, never to be forgotten.