Chapter 9: Rudeus Blackheart 3
Mornings in the Blackheart estate aren't mornings. They're rituals.
The sun barely creeps over the horizon before the servants are already whispering in the halls, their slippers tapping against marble. Curtains get pulled back. Fireplaces get stoked. Food is laid out like a military operation. Every little thing polished until it gleams.
All for appearances. All for show.
And me? I'm at the center of it. Or I'm supposed to be.
Rudeus Blackheart. The bastard son. The stray mongrel they keep in noble clothes so they don't look bad at family portraits.
I sit at the vanity, shirt half-buttoned, watching some poor servant girl tremble while she tries to fix my collar. Her hands shake so bad you'd think she was defusing a bomb.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. Crimson to brown. She flinches like I just pulled a knife.
"Relax," I mutter. My voice comes out low, rough, the voice of Jimmy Bellic, not Rudeus Blackheart. "Collar's not gonna bite you."
She stammers something polite. I don't bother listening.
Because this is the rhythm of noble life. Fake smiles. Forced respect. Servants bowing low while muttering curses under their breath. Nobles nodding while sharpening daggers behind their backs.
I've seen this dance before. Not in marble halls, but in smoke-filled backrooms, at poker tables stacked with dirty money. Different costumes. Same play.
Breakfast is worse.
The Blackheart dining hall is big enough to fit a church inside it. Chandeliers glitter overhead. A table stretches so long you could march an army across it. And at the far end, seated like a king in his castle, is him.
Duke Blackheart.
My "father."
The air shifts when he enters. Servants freeze. The chatter dies. Even the birds outside the window go quiet, like they know better.
He's a tall bastard, broad-shouldered, with hair like a raven's wing and eyes colder than ice. Dressed in black, always black, as if color itself is beneath him. When he sits, it's not just sitting—it's claiming the entire damn room.
And the servants bow like he's the second coming.
I slide into my seat halfway down the table. Far enough from him to remind me I'm not part of the "real" family. Close enough to still be his shadow.
He doesn't look at me. Not yet.
Instead, he cuts into his breakfast with the precision of a surgeon. Every move calm, deliberate, terrifying in its quiet.
The silence is thick. Oppressive. The kind that makes weaker men sweat bullets.
Then he speaks.
"Rudeus."
Just my name. Cold. Dismissive.
The servants jump. One drops a fork. I don't move.
I lift my gaze, meet his eyes.
Those eyes—they're supposed to be terrifying. Supposed to carry the weight of a thousand corpses, the chill of noble cruelty. The kind of gaze that crushes servants into the floor.
But me?
I've stared down mob bosses with murder in their eyes. I've had shotguns shoved in my face by men who meant it. I've walked alleys ankle-deep in blood, the stench of cordite in my lungs.
This? This is theater.
Inside, I laugh.
This? This is what they're scared of? Christ, I've had waiters in Brooklyn with scarier vibes.
On the outside, though, I bow my head. Play the part. The quiet, obedient bastard son.
"Yes, Father," I say. Smooth. Empty.
His eyes narrow. Just a fraction.
He talks about estate affairs. Politics. Rival houses. War brewing at the borders. None of it directed at me. I'm a shadow at his table, furniture with a pulse.
The legitimate heirs sit closer to him, nodding, answering when spoken to. Polished, perfect, everything I'm not. They don't look at me. Why would they?
I chew my food slow, sip my wine. My face calm, my gut twisting with laughter.
Because all of this—the cold glares, the heavy silence, the suffocating aura—is supposed to remind me I'm small. Disposable. Weak.
But I know better.
I've lived under real pressure. I've breathed real death.
Duke Blackheart? He's just another man playing at being god.
After breakfast, he finally addresses me again.
"You will attend the gathering tonight."
His tone leaves no room for argument. Not that it matters—I wouldn't argue even if I wanted to. Not yet.
"Yes, Father."
He stares at me. Long, hard, like he's searching for cracks in a mask.
I hold his gaze. Calm. Obedient. But inside, my grin is sharp enough to cut glass.
Keep staring, old man. You won't find what you're looking for. You think I'm weak. You think I'm breakable. But I've stared down demons worse than you in alleys reeking of piss and blood. You're nothing.
Finally, he looks away.
Dismisses me.
Like I'm nothing.
Good. Let him think that.
Because when the time comes to fake my death, when I vanish from under his nose, he won't see it coming.
And Jimmy Bellic? He'll be laughing all the way out the door.
Later, back in my chambers, I lean against the window, staring out at the manicured gardens. Servants bustle below, tending roses so perfect they look fake.
My reflection glares back from the glass. Ashen hair. Crimson eyes. Beautiful, fragile, tragic.
"Tonight, huh?" I mutter.
A noble gathering. A party. A stage.
And maybe—just maybe—the first crack I can pry open.
Because if I'm gonna fake my death, I'll need the whole world watching.
And what better stage than a ballroom full of nobles drunk on wine and gossip?
I smirk, low and dangerous.
"This is just the beginning."