[15 Years Ago – The Valentino Private Estate]
The air at the edge of the Valentino property was thick with the scent of pine and the metallic tang of sweat. This was the Training Ground—a place where the soft edges of childhood were ground into the sharp blades of soldiers.
"No. Too weak. Strengthen your defense! Balance your stance, boy!"
Antonio Valentino's voice didn't just carry; it commanded the very molecules of the air to vibrate. He stood like a monolith, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes tracking every minute movement of his firstborn son. He didn't offer praise; he only offered correction.
[Three Hours Later]
The sun had begun to dip, casting long, skeletal shadows across the dirt. A battered, ten-year-old Lucien lay sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving as he stared up at the vast expanse of the sky. The stars were starting to peek through the twilight.
They're so bright... perhaps they're happy, Lucien thought vaguely. It was a fleeting, alien thought.
Sweat soaked through his training gear, and dark bruises were already blossoming across his ribs and forearms. Yet, as he lay there in the dirt, not a single flicker of pain or exhaustion touched his features. His face was a mask of cold, unreadable marble.
It had been this way since he was five years old. Years of relentless, brutal conditioning had systematically erased every trace of spontaneous emotion from his psyche. He was a masterpiece of suppression. No matter how much he tried to reach inside himself to feel a spark of anger, fear, or joy, he found only a hollow, silent void.
"Young boss!"
The shout of a guard broke his reverie. A man in a black suit ran toward him, stopping a respectful distance away. "The Don wants you in his study immediately."
Lucien didn't answer. He simply exhaled a quiet, ghost-like breath and pushed himself up from the ground. He didn't limp, and he didn't complain. He left the training ground without a single backward glance.
[The Study Room]
The study was a sanctuary of dark oak, leather-bound books, and the heavy scent of expensive tobacco. It was the room where the fate of the city was decided.
"You sent for me, Don," Lucien said. His voice was toneless, a flat line of sound as he stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him.
Antonio Valentino sat behind his massive desk, the amber light of a desk lamp illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He was swirling a glass of clear liquid—vodka, sharp and biting.
"Sit, son," Antonio said, gesturing to the leather chair across from him. For a fraction of a second, his voice softened, a ghostly remnant of a father's warmth. "You can drop the formalities here. Call me Father."
Lucien didn't flinch, and he didn't relax. He had heard that line too many times to believe in the warmth it promised. Antonio Valentino was a man of absolute mercury—merciless and cold, especially with his heir. But regardless of the ice in the man's veins, he was the sun Lucien's world revolved around.
"Sinn Lucien Valentino," the Don began, leaning back until his face was swallowed by the shadows. "Always remember this: only the powerful are fit to lead this family. And power is not a gift; it is a weight earned through absolute determination."
He leaned forward, the glass of vodka clicking against the wood of the desk. "Everyone has a little sin in them, Lucien. It is human nature. But only the strongest among us can take that sin and turn it into dominance. In this world, you must always be the greater sin."
"I understand," Lucien replied. He didn't blink. He absorbed the words like a sponge, filing them away into the dark corners of his mind.
"You killed a maid today," the Don said casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes watching Lucien over the rim of the glass. "Are you getting fond of killing my household staff?"
"She was staring at me for too long," Lucien answered. His voice didn't waver, but deep in the recesses of his mind, dark thoughts flickered like shadows on a wall. The ring around his iris seemed to deepen in shadow. "Two minutes of observation is a weakness in security. I eliminated the weakness."
Antonio watched his son for a long moment, looking for a crack in the boy's composure. He found none. A grim, satisfied nod followed.
"Good," the Don said. "But be careful, Lucien. A blade that is too sharp eventually snaps its own hilt."