Back in the day, Kyan used to sit on the kitchen counter and watch his grandma cook. She'd hum old songs and smile at him while flipping food in the pan like it was magic.
He remembered the smell of fresh herbs, the warmth, the calm.
Kyan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"This is it," he whispered to himself.
Then he rolled up his sleeves, grabbed the pan, and started cooking. He didn't overthink it. He let his hands move, trusting the memories of his grandma's touch and timing.
No fancy tricks. Just heart.
Just hope.
Within ten minutes, Kyan was done. The meal looked golden—literally. The aroma filled the kitchen, and even he was surprised by how good it smelled.
The maid walked in, took a quick whiff, then gave him a small nod. "They'll like it," she whispered with a soft smile.
But Kyan wasn't so sure. His hands were trembling as he moved to wash them. What if they don't like it? What if they think it's trash? What if I get killed?
He was so lost in thought, he didn't hear the soft footsteps behind him.
Just a few feet away, another servant—an older man in a crisp white apron—peeked around the corner. His name was Silvio. He'd worked in the Luciano villa for over ten years and took pride in his place. He was known for his loyalty, sharp tongue, and perfect pasta.
Silvio hated new cooks.
Especially ones who came in and suddenly got noticed.
He wasn't about to lose his big paycheck, his room with a view, or the respect of the Luciano family over some wide-eyed softie.
His eyes landed on the food plate.
With a smirk, he pulled a small jar from his apron pocket—dried garlic flakes. The one thing the Luciano family despised. One bite and they'd flip.
He dumped it into the food quickly, stirred it a little, then tiptoed out just as quietly as he'd come in.
Kyan didn't notice a thing.
He was still drying his hands, hoping the Lucianos didn't kill people for undercooked rice.
In the massive, dim-lit dining hall of the Mafia Kingdom, the long table stretched endlessly, filled with the intimidating presence of the 62 Luciano brothers.
Each one sat like a king, dressed in black, their faces unreadable, some resting guns casually on the table like spoons.
This wasn't dinner.
This was a ritual.
The maid entered slowly, carrying the golden plate of food like it was a ticking bomb. Her steps were careful, hands steady—but her eyes glanced nervously at Kyan standing by the far corner.
He stood frozen, palms clammy, eyes wide. His heart was beating in his ears. He was dressed in plain black, like the lowest of servants, and yet he felt like a criminal waiting for a sentence.
The maid placed the dish in front of the eldest Luciano, who sniffed it first. Silence. Then another brother leaned in. A spoon was lifted. Then a taste.
Kyan swallowed hard.
Please like it… please just not hate it… please don't shoot me.
Just as the spoon touched the lips of the Luciano dog—a massive, wolf-like beast that had been with the family for years—everyone held their breath. The dog was more than a pet. It was part of the bloodline. Loyal, brutal, trained to sense danger. It never failed.
It chewed once…
Then again…
Then its body jerked.
With a loud, sickening choke, it dropped the spoon, stumbled, and suddenly vomited thick blood all over the marble floor.
Chaos.
Spoons clattered. Chairs pushed back. Some of the brothers stood up so fast their guns hit the table edge. All eyes turned, slowly, coldly—straight at Kyan.
Kyan's heart dropped. He didn't even know when the guards grabbed him. One yanked his arm, the other twisted it behind his back. He didn't fight back—he was frozen.
"I always knew he was a Massimo," one of the brothers hissed darkly, stepping forward.
"Yeah!" another barked, "Only a damn Massimo would try this!"
Nico didn't say a word. His jaw clenched. Hard. His cold stare burned into Kyan like knives.
A strong hand gripped Kyan's shoulder from behind. "You poisoned the Don's plate," the brother growled. "You were sent here to kill him, weren't you?"
"I—I didn't!" Kyan gasped, panic flooding his voice. "I didn't poison anything! I swear—!"
But no one listened.
"This is why we carry out food trial rituals," another brother said with venom. "Because enemies like you… they'll always try."
The Don, seated at the head of the table, waved his hand slowly. "Take him to the dungeon," he said calmly. "We'll execute him after dinner."
Kyan screamed, "Please, I didn't do it—!"
But he was already being dragged across the cold floor, metal cuffs slicing into his skin, his voice echoing down the hallway.
And Nico still hadn't said a word.
Down in the cold, damp dungeon, Kyan sat on the floor, wrists shackled, eyes wide with fear.
His heart beat so loud it echoed in his ears.
His fingers trembled, cold sweat rolling down his neck.
He wasn't a killer. He didn't even like holding knives the wrong way. But now? Now he was about to die for a crime he didn't commit.
Above, in the grand war room of the Luciano Villa, the brothers sat around a long table lit by a golden chandelier, all throwing out punishments like they were choosing pizza toppings.
"Behead him," one said without blinking, sipping wine. "Clean. Quick. Send a message."
"No," another argued. "Line him up with the traitors. Let the shooting squad handle it. Make it slow."
"I say we skin him alive. Hang what's left by the gate. That'll teach any other Massimo rat."
Laughter. Cold. Cruel. But not all of them laughed.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking. "What if we don't kill him right away?" he said casually. "Make him clean the kennels. Fight in the cage. Bleed for his food. If he survives a month… maybe he's not a Massimo."
"Or maybe he's just a lucky rat," another scoffed.
Then, the room fell silent when Nico stood.
He didn't say a word.
He just lit a cigarette, took a drag, and stared out the window like he was watching a storm come in.
Then quietly—too quietly—he said, "Let him sit in the dungeon till I say so."
Everyone exchanged looks.
No one questioned Nico.
But the tension hung in the air like a knife waiting to drop.
And down below, Kyan had no idea that his fate was being debated like a dinner menu.
And the worst part?
Nico's silence. That scared him more than all their death threats combined.