Morning light poured through the tall windows, striping the marble floor in gold.
At the long mahogany table, tradition gleamed as sharply as the polish — and weighed just as heavy.
Three men sat at its center — spaced deliberately, as though any closer might unsettle the balance.
Don Luciano sat at the head. Poised. Controlled. His suit, deep charcoal, pressed to perfection. Not a strand of his silver hair out of place.
To his right, Matteo — posture sharp, expression unreadable. His phone rested face-down beside his water glass. He hadn't touched it since he sat.
And to the left, Felix.
He wore a soft cream sweater over a collared shirt, hands folded in his lap.
He kept his eyes low, not out of fear — but out of respect, or maybe weariness.
There was still a boy in him that hadn't gotten used to the silence this house carried.
Behind them, the guards stood still — four housemen flanking the room like statues carved into the walls.
None spoke. None moved. Their presence was expected. Normal.
Then, the doors opened with a whisper.
One by one, the staff entered in quiet rhythm — not rushed, not slow.
Plates were arranged with practiced grace: bone china, silver cutlery, cloth napkins folded like lilies.
The first course settled before them — fresh fruit, delicate pastries, warm bread with imported jam.
The air held the faintest scent of brewed coffee and expensive cologne.
Still, no one spoke.
Don Luciano reached first for his glass. Took a sip. Set it down.
Then, calmly — without lifting his gaze:
"You're both quiet this morning."
The words floated across the table, steady and deep, like a distant drum.
Matteo picked up his fork.
Felix simply glanced up, unsure if he was meant to answer — or just listen.
Before Matteo could lift the first bite to his mouth, Don Luciano's voice cut through the soft clink of silverware.
"I heard you canceled the dinner yesterday."
Matteo didn't flinch, but his hand paused midway, fork hovering above his plate.
He set it down without looking up.
"I had an important meeting," he replied calmly, wiping his fingers with the napkin even though they were clean. "Something urgent came up at the docks."
Don Luciano leaned back, silver hair catching the light, gaze sharp enough to cut.
"Felix is important too." Quiet, but in that tone that left no space for breath — let alone excuses. "You're engaged. That isn't a title, Matteo. It's a duty."
Across the table, Felix stayed still. His fingers tightened slightly around the stem of his glass, but his face remained unreadable.
His gaze stayed on the table, not out of fear — but because watching Matteo avoid looking at him hurt more than he'd admit.
Matteo's breath left him slow and sharp — the kind you take before stepping into a fight — before he finally met his father's gaze.
"I never said he wasn't," he said. "But being present at a dinner doesn't mean I'm not taking care of him."
"You think protection is enough?" Don Luciano asked, lifting a brow. "This house is guarded. His name is safe. But that's not the same as being seen, Matteo. He's not cargo. He's your future."
A pause settled in the air.
Then, Don Luciano's gaze shifted, softer for just a breath as it flicked toward Felix.
"His father trusted us with him."
Felix looked up then — just briefly.
There was something behind his eyes, unspoken, unreadable.
He didn't smile, but he gave the slightest nod, acknowledging the weight of that sentence.
Matteo leaned back in his seat, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the linen cloth in front of him.
"I'm handling things the best way I know how."
Don Luciano didn't press further. He simply lifted his cup again, taking a slow sip.
"Then learn better."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy — just lingering, like a reminder.
The meal continued.
But the space between them had shifted.
The quiet clatter of silverware had faded into the background, replaced by the occasional soft sip of water or the muted shifting of chairs on marble.
Don Luciano dabbed his mouth with his napkin, precise as always.
He set it down beside his plate, the gesture final.
Then, without lifting his gaze, he spoke — calm, firm, deliberate.
"Matteo," he said, his voice like the closing of a door. "Meet me in my office before you leave."
Matteo didn't answer right away. He wiped his fingers, folded his napkin, then glanced up with a mild nod — restrained, composed.
"Yes, Father."
Don Luciano rose. The housemen nearby subtly straightened, but he offered them no acknowledgment.
He turned slightly toward Felix, offering a short, almost fatherly look.
"Eat well, son." His tone gentled for a breath — not quite warm, but respectful.
As if he still remembered the promise made at a hospital bed years ago.
Felix nodded faintly. "Thank you, sir."
The older man gave a quiet hum of approval, then exited the dining room, steps echoing with purpose as he made his way down the hall toward his study.
For a few moments, silence stretched again.
Matteo didn't move. His gaze stayed on the untouched plate, jaw tight.
By the time he exhaled, the morning's warmth had already turned cold.
"He always waits until the end," he muttered under his breath, half to himself.
Felix looked at him but said nothing.
Instead, he pushed his own plate slightly forward, appetite gone.
The day was beginning — but the tension had already begun to brew.