The ship sailed all through the night.
Kyan lay wrapped in a blanket, his mind spinning from the attack—panic still fresh in his chest. But deep down, he held onto one thing.
His papa had escaped.
That thought was the only thing that kept him from falling apart.
By morning, the ship slowed, brushing up against a private dock carved out of rock and silence.
They had reached it.
The Mafia Kingdom.
Luciano's Villa.
It wasn't just a mansion. It was a fortress.
The Luciano villa was where every bloodline of the family lived—Nico's brothers, cousins, all of them born and raised in violence.
In this place, kids didn't play with toys.
They played with knives.
No one was soft. No one was safe. And if you made it past twenty-five with all ten fingers, you were considered lucky.
Here, killing wasn't a crime.
It was part of growing up.
Two bodyguards rushed up the stone steps and bowed the moment they saw him.
"Boss!" one called, out of breath.
Nico barely glanced at them. He leaned down toward Kyan, voice low.
"Careful, softie," he muttered with a smirk. "They hate softies here."
Then he straightened and walked in like he owned the world.
Inside the villa, it was loud. Heated. Full of life and danger.
Luciano men filled the grand hallway—tall, sharp-eyed, tattooed like walking threats.
The moment Nico stepped in, cheers broke out.
"Boss is back!"
"Thank God the Massimos didn't harm you, Nico!"
"We swore—we wouldn't have spared a single one of them!"
Even their grandmother stood from her grand carved chair, wrinkled hands shaking as she cupped Nico's face.
"My boy," she breathed. "My blood. They didn't take you from us."
Kyan was struggling to get through the heavy doors when a hand yanked him back, hard.
"Who the hell are you?" a deep voice snapped. "You lost, or just stupid?"
The man was broad, taller than most, eyes sharp like he didn't ask twice.
Before Kyan could even speak, Nico appeared from nowhere—again.
Why does he always show up the exact moment I'm in trouble?
Nico shoved the guy's hand off Kyan. "He's mine."
The man raised a brow. "Yours?"
"My servant," Nico said, smooth. "Stole my watch. Thought he could run." He glanced at Kyan with a mocking smirk. "Too bad he got caught."
Kyan stared at the floor.
"This softie works here now. Until the watch is paid."
Another voice joined. Lighter. Smoother.
"Hope it's not that Richard Mille you wore to the auction," someone said.
Kyan turned.
The guy was tall. Stunning. Like model-level handsome with warm brown eyes and a playful smirk that could ruin someone's day.
Lucas.
Nico's brother.
Nico clicked his tongue. "Too bad it is."
Lucas laughed. "Guess he's working here forever then."
What? Kyan said inwardly, lips parting but no words coming out.
He was still trying to process Nico's words when they started walking, and he had no choice but to trail behind.
One by one, he passed the men seated in the wide marble-floored hall. Each of them looked like they had walked straight out of a dark mafia movie—tall, sharp-jawed, expensive suits, and eyes that looked like they'd seen things. Things Kyan never wanted to imagine.
They didn't speak. Just watched him. Like a lamb walking into a den of wolves.
His throat dried.
"You're the servant?" a calm, old voice asked from the side.
Kyan turned. A butler stood there, dressed perfectly in black and white, holding a silver tablet.
"Yes, sir," he muttered.
"Follow me. These are your rules," the man said without waiting.
They walked into a narrow hallway, and the butler started listing.
"One. You don't speak to a Luciano unless you're spoken to."
Kyan nodded slowly.
"Two. You don't look a Luciano in the eyes for more than three seconds unless you're prepared to die trying."
His steps faltered. What the—
"Three. Never enter the west wing. Ever."
The air felt colder suddenly.
"Four. No phones. No cameras. No gossip. This house keeps its own secrets."
Kyan blinked. This was insane.
"And five…" The butler finally stopped and faced him. "If you ever see a red door open—run."
"Run?" Kyan repeated, voice almost a whisper.
The butler gave a slow, terrifying smile. "Exactly."
Before Kyan could say anything else, the butler turned sharply and walked away, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor.
Kyan stood there, confused.
Red door? What the hell did that mean?
He barely had time to think before—
Smack!
A hand hit the back of his head.
"Ow!" he flinched, turning quickly.
Another Luciano. He looked younger than Nico, still ridiculously handsome, with messy dark hair and a bored expression like he woke up dangerous.
"Go cook something, softie," the guy muttered with a lazy grin, already walking past him. "Kitchen's that way."
Kyan stared at him.
"Welcome to trouble,softie," the guy added without looking back.
And just like that, he disappeared into the hallway—leaving Kyan wondering how the hell he ended up in this mad house full of beautiful men, strict rules, and red doors he wasn't allowed to ask about.
Kyan walked into the kitchen, still rubbing the back of his head.
"First day?" a voice asked softly.
He turned to see a maid—probably around his age, petite with kind eyes and an apron dusted with flour. She looked at him like she'd seen a hundred confused boys like him before.
"You're just in time for your food trial," she said, handing him a knife. "Lucky you."
"Food… trial?" Kyan repeated, eyes widening.
She nodded, lowering her voice. "They'll judge your cooking today. If they like it, you stay. If they don't…" Her eyes flicked to the side.
"What happens if they don't like it?" he asked, already nervous.
She gave a hesitant smile. "Let's just say… don't cook rubbish. The last guy tried to impress them with pineapple pasta. They dragged him out before dessert."
Kyan gulped.
"They're picky," she continued, guiding him to the ingredients. "They don't eat anything too sweet. No pink sauces. Don't even think about tofu. Keep it spicy but not too spicy. And never, ever burn the garlic."
He stared at the pile of ingredients like it was a bomb.
"Oh, and," she leaned closer, whispering, "they once made a chef kneel in hot stew for burning the rice."
Kyan almost dropped the knife.
She patted his shoulder. "Good luck, softie. Try not to die today."
And with that, she walked off—leaving Kyan in the heat of the kitchen, alone with his panic, a pile of vegetables, and the knowledge that cooking could literally kill him.
Welcome to Hell's kitchen — Mafia Edition.