The room they gave Alex was larger than the entire workshop he had grown up in, and that alone felt like an insult. The door shut behind him with a soft click, not the harsh slam he had expected, and for a moment he simply stood there, unmoving, staring at the space as though it might disappear if he blinked too fast. The walls were painted in a muted cream tone, elegant but not loud, and the bed in the center of the room was wide with neatly pressed sheets that looked untouched by human struggle. A chandelier hung above, smaller than the one in the foyer but just as deliberate in its placement, casting warm light across polished wooden floors. There was even a balcony door with long curtains drawn halfway, revealing the faint outline of the estate grounds beyond.
He swallowed slowly and stepped further inside, his shoes making almost no sound against the floor. It felt wrong. Everything about it felt wrong. His parents had died on a dusty workshop floor less than an hour ago, blood soaking into wood that would never shine again, and here he was standing in a room that smelled faintly of lavender and fresh linen. The contrast pressed against his ribs until it became hard to breathe. He let out a shaky sigh and ran a trembling hand through his hair, only to feel the stiffness of dried sweat and ash still clinging to it.
There was a mirror across from the bed.
He approached it slowly, each step heavier than the last, and when he finally stood in front of it, he almost did not recognize the person staring back. His eyes were swollen and rimmed red, his lips pale, his expression hollow in a way that made him look older than he was. There was a faint smear of blood near his collar that he had not noticed before. Seeing it up close made his chest tighten violently, and he turned away abruptly as though the reflection itself had accused him of something.
He moved toward the attached bathroom, pushing the door open carefully. It was spotless. Marble countertops. Silver fixtures. Towels folded with precise symmetry. He walked to the sink and turned on the tap, watching as clear water rushed out with mechanical obedience. He placed his hands under it, and the water immediately began to wash away the faint traces of dirt and blood that had dried there. The sight of pink swirling down the drain made his breath hitch painfully. His fingers dug into the edge of the sink as his shoulders began to shake.
He did not scream this time. He did not wail. He simply cried. The tears fell silently, sliding down his face and mixing with the water as he bent forward slightly, forehead almost touching the mirror. His mind replayed the moment again and again, the gunshots echoing inside his skull, the laughter, the words that had come before the trigger was pulled. Shame to humanity. The cruelty of it gnawed at him. His fathers had loved quietly, had lived gently, and they had died for something so small and hateful.
He turned off the tap eventually, though he could not remember deciding to do so. The room felt too quiet. The silence of the estate was nothing like the silence of peace. It was structured and Controlled. Every second here felt measured. He dried his hands mechanically and walked back into the bedroom, staring at the bed again as if it were an unfamiliar object. He lowered himself onto the edge of it slowly, testing the softness, and for a brief second he imagined his fathers sitting beside him like they used to when he was younger, one of them ruffling his hair while the other scolded him gently for overworking himself. The memory hit him so suddenly that he bent forward, burying his face in his hands as another wave of grief rolled through him.
A knock came at the door. It was soft and firm. Alex stiffened instantly, wiping his face quickly even though he knew the redness would not fade so fast. He stood and walked toward the door, opening it cautiously. A woman stood outside, dressed neatly in a simple black uniform. She looked to be in her late forties, her hair pulled back tightly, her expression composed. She did not smile, but neither did she look cruel.
"My name is Mrs. Vera," she said in a steady voice. "I oversee the household staff."
Alex nodded faintly, unsure whether he was expected to speak.
"You will be provided clean clothes in the wardrobe," she continued, stepping slightly aside to allow him to see the rack inside the room. "Meals are served at scheduled times. You are not to wander into restricted areas of the estate without permission. If Master Antonio summons you, you are to respond immediately."
Her tone was professional, almost detached, as though she were explaining the rules of a boarding school rather than the structure of a criminal empire.
"And if I do not?" Alex asked quietly before he could stop himself. His voice did not carry defiance, only tired curiosity.
Mrs. Vera's eyes met his briefly, and for the first time he saw something flicker there. Not sympathy exactly, but awareness. "It would be unwise," she replied simply.
She handed him a folded set of clothes, fresh and pressed. "You are to present yourself downstairs in fifteen minutes."
"For what?" he asked.
"Master Antonio wishes to speak with you."
The name alone made his stomach tighten. He nodded again, and she left without another word. The hallway swallowed her footsteps almost immediately.
Alex closed the door and leaned back against it for a second, closing his eyes. He had barely had time to breathe, to process, to exist, and already he was being summoned. He moved toward the wardrobe and changed slowly, each motion deliberate. The clothes fit him almost perfectly, which unsettled him further. It meant they had estimated his size quickly, the efficiency scared him.
When he stepped out into the hallway, two guards were stationed at either end. They did not look at him directly, but their presence was unmistakable. He followed the direction Mrs. Vera had indicated earlier and descended the staircase carefully. The foyer looked even larger now that he stood alone in it.
Antonio was seated in a chair near a long table, a glass of water untouched beside him. He looked exactly as he had before, composed, almost serene. His gaze lifted as Alex approached, and there was no visible emotion in his eyes, only assessment.
"Sit," Antonio instructed calmly, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second before obeying. He sat with his back straight, hands resting loosely on his lap, though his fingers trembled faintly.
"You have no visible injuries," Antonio began. "That is fortunate."
Alex said nothing.
"What can you do?" Antonio asked next.
The question caught him slightly off guard. He blinked once. "I… I can cook," he answered quietly. "I worked with my fathers in the workshop, but I always handled the meals."
Antonio studied him for a long moment. "You do not beg," he observed.
Alex's throat tightened. "Would it change anything?"
There was a subtle pause in the air. Antonio's expression did not shift, but something in his eyes sharpened faintly. "No," he replied evenly.
Footsteps echoed from behind as Raphael appeared at the edge of the room, leaning casually against the doorway with his arms crossed. His gaze moved over Alex openly.
"So this is the quiet one," Raphael said with a faint smirk. "He looks less fragile now that he's cleaned up."
Alex felt his pulse quicken under that scrutiny, but he forced himself not to look away immediately. Raphael noticed. His smirk deepened. He stepped closer, invading the space without asking permission, and tilted his head slightly as though examining an interesting piece of art.
"Are you scared?" Raphael asked softly.
Alex swallowed. "Yes."
Raphael let out a low chuckle. "At least he's honest."
Antonio stood slowly, his movements deliberate. "He will cook," he said calmly, as though the decision had already been made long before this conversation began. "He stays in the east wing. Under supervision."
Raphael's eyes flickered briefly toward his brother before returning to Alex.
"I like the sound of that," he murmured, his voice carrying malicious intent.
Alex rose from his chair as well, feeling the weight of their combined presence pressing down on him. He understood then that this was not about kindness or cruelty alone. It was about usefulness. About placement. About function within a system that did not tolerate weakness.
As he was escorted away, he allowed himself one final thought, quiet and steady beneath the grief that still burned inside him. If he was going to survive here, he could not remain shattered forever. Broken things were discarded in places like this. And he had already lost too much to become disposable.