Vera stood at the head of the kitchen island, reviewing the dinner sequence with controlled efficiency, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of a leather-bound folder. The staff listened carefully. No one interrupted her.
Alex stood a few steps away, polishing a tray that did not need polishing. His hands moved on their own while his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He had slept poorly. Again. Every time he closed his eyes, he replayed voices, footsteps, the weight of being watched. He inhaled slowly and steadied himself.
You are fine. You are working. That is all.
Then the front doors opened with careless force.
The sound rolled down the marble corridor and slipped into the kitchen without warning. A young maid startled visibly, her shoulders jumping before she forced them back into place. One of the cooks muttered something under his breath and then immediately fell silent. Vera paused mid-sentence. She did not flinch, but she did sigh...it was soft, controlled, almost imperceptible.
Raphael was home.
His laughter reached them before his footsteps did. It was quite loud. There was something restless threaded through it, something that did not quite settle into joy. Alex's stomach tightened before he even saw him.
A few seconds later, Raphael appeared at the entrance of the corridor that led toward the kitchen. He was shrugging out of his jacket as he walked, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off tension. His knuckles were scraped, faint streaks of dried blood still visible. A bruise shadowed his jaw. He looked like someone who had ended a fight but not the argument in his own head.
His eyes scanned the space lazily.
Then they landed on Alex.
And stayed there.
"Well," Raphael said, stepping fully into the corridor, "this is new."
Alex swallowed before lifting his gaze. "Good evening."
Raphael's mouth curved slightly. He exhaled through his nose, almost amused. "You've adjusted quickly."
"I'm doing my job," Alex replied, his voice steady though he could feel the tightness in his throat.
Raphael walked closer, unhurried, each step deliberate enough to make the distance feel intentional. "Is that what you think this is?" he asked.
Alex didn't answer immediately. He could feel the staff pretending not to listen. Vera stood still, composed, but her attention had shifted entirely.
"I cook," Alex said finally. "You eat. That seems clear."
Raphael let out a short, low laugh. "You're bold tonight."
"I'm being honest."
Raphael stopped directly in front of him. Close enough that Alex could smell smoke and something sharper beneath it....He knew this smell by heart...it was the unmistakable scent of blood..His gaze moved over Alex's face slowly.
"You look different in daylight," Raphael murmured. Alex scanned around himself as far as hid eye could go
What does the hooligan mean?
"Different how?" Alex asked before he could stop himself.
Raphael tilted his head slightly. "Less breakable."
The words landed heavily.
Alex's fingers tightened against the tray. "You don't know me well enough to decide that."
"Oh, I think I know enough," Raphael replied quietly.
Before the air could thicken further, another voice cut in.
"Raphael."
Antonio's tone was smooth and controlled, but not devoid of feeling. Alex turned his head slightly to see him approaching from the main hall. He looked immaculate as always, though there was a faint crease between his brows that suggested irritation rather than calm.
Raphael did not move away, but he did glance toward his brother. "You're home early."
"I could say the same," Antonio replied.
Raphael sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "It was handled."
"I didn't ask," Antonio said evenly.
The silence that followed was not comfortable.
Antonio's gaze shifted to Alex. Not lingering, but observant. "Dinner is prepared?"
"Yes," Alex answered.
Antonio nodded once, then looked back at Raphael. "You don't need to stand over him."
Raphael's jaw tightened slightly. "I wasn't standing over him."
Antonio's expression did not change, but his voice lowered. "You were."
Raphael exhaled sharply. "You're overreacting."
"Am I?" Antonio asked.
The question hung there, heavy.
Alex felt like an object placed between two magnets pulling in opposite directions. He wished he could disappear into the kitchen walls.
Raphael looked back at Alex, then at Antonio. "He doesn't look uncomfortable."
Alex felt both their gazes settle on him.
He forced himself to speak. "I didn't say I was comfortable."
The words slipped out before he could weigh them.
Raphael's eyes flickered with something like surprise. Antonio's gaze sharpened.
Antonio inhaled slowly. "Return to your station," he instructed Alex.
Alex hesitated. For half a second, he wondered if leaving would make him appear weak. Then he realized staying would make him something worse. He stepped back.
"Yes."
As he moved, Raphael spoke again. "You talk more than I expected."
Alex stopped despite himself. "Would you prefer silence?"
Raphael's lips twitched faintly. "I prefer honesty."
"Then you should get used to me speaking," Alex replied, his voice quieter now but no less firm.
Antonio stepped forward slightly, his presence tightening the space between them. "Enough," he said, not loudly, but decisively. He looked at Raphael. "You're agitated. Don't project it onto him."
Raphael's head snapped toward his brother. "You assume I'm agitated."
"You're bruised," Antonio said calmly. "You're pacing. And you've interrupted dinner service."
Raphael huffed a breath, half laugh, half frustration. "You analyze everything."
"That's why this house stands," Antonio replied.
The statement was not arrogant. It was factual.
For a moment, neither brother spoke. The tension between them was not explosive. It was layered. And Alex realised that the brickering might just be a ritual for both of them.
Alex felt something shift in his understanding.
They were powerful together.
But they were not the same.
Raphael ran a hand through his hair again, sighing this time without trying to disguise it. "Fine. I'll eat. Then I'm going out again."
Antonio's gaze hardened slightly. "You will not."
Raphael looked at him sharply. "You don't dictate my nights."
"I dictate what affects the family."
"And I don't?"
The exchange was quick but loaded.
Alex realized something then that steadied him in a way fear never could.
They disagreed and fought but they weren't ashamed to do so before thier workers.
Antonio finally spoke, his voice lower now. "We will discuss it later."
Raphael held his stare for a long second before looking away first. "Always later," he muttered.
The moment fractured.
Antonio turned to Alex. "Serve dinner."
"Yes," Alex replied.
As he walked back toward the kitchen, his pulse still raced, but his thoughts had sharpened. He replayed every word in his mind. Every sigh. Every clipped response.
Later that evening, when he crossed the hall again carrying a fresh tray, Raphael stopped him near the staircase.
"You enjoy that, don't you?" Raphael asked quietly.
"Enjoy what?"
"Watching."
Alex met his gaze carefully. "I observe."
Raphael studied him for a moment. Then he sighed softly, not annoyed this time, but thoughtful. "Careful," he said. "Observation becomes calculation."
Alex felt his heartbeat steady rather than spike.
"And calculation becomes survival," he replied.
For a second, Raphael simply stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled faintly. Not cruel. Not mocking. Almost impressed.
"Interesting," Raphael murmured.
Alex lowered his gaze on his own terms and walked past him.
Behind him, he could feel Raphael watching.
For the first time since arriving at the estate, Alex did not feel entirely cornered.