A knock came at the door—
The boys all paused mid-laugh.
Ace raised a brow. "Who the hell knocks like that?"
The door creaked open, and a servant popped her head in. She looked nervous, but oddly excited. "Umm… Master Nico requests the three of you."
Dante groaned. "Now?"
"Yeah," she said, eyes darting. "He said it's… uh… knife practice time?"
"What?" Roco blinked. "At midnight?"
"He said it's urgent." She gave them a bow like she was in a rush. "Right now. Downstairs."
The three brothers exchanged weird looks. But hey, when Nico calls, you go.
"Guess we're getting bloody," Roco muttered, already standing.
Dante shoved Ace. "Let's go, Mr. Loverboy."
Ace rolled his eyes but followed.
Kyan didn't even have time to speak. Before he could say, "Should I come?" the servant turned to him with a stiff smile.
"Oh. No. Just them."
Then she disappeared down the hall.
And just like that, the room fell quiet again. Kyan was alone.
He glanced toward the door they left through… then down at the game still laid out.
"…Knife practice? Really?" he muttered, brows scrunched.
Yeah. That was weird.
Nico sat behind his massive mahogany desk in the study, legs crossed, a glass of dark liquor in one hand, a cigarette burning slowly in the ashtray beside him.
The three boys entered, slightly confused but trying not to show it.
"Sit," Nico said coldly without even looking up.
They didn't sit.
He finally raised his head. Sharp, cold eyes met theirs.
"You think this house is a damn frat house?" His voice was low, deadly calm. "Laughing. Screaming. Truth or dare bullshit?"
Dante opened his mouth. "We were just—"
"I don't care," Nico cut him off sharply. "There are powerful men downstairs. Do you know what they'll say if they hear a bunch of immature brats screaming about hickeys and dares?"
Ace muttered under his breath, "No one was screaming—"
Nico slammed the glass down. "Don't try me, Ace."
Silence.
"I don't want to hear another sound from that room tonight," Nico said, standing slowly. "Next time, I won't send a servant."
He walked past them like they were furniture.
"And tell your little softie to keep his moans down too."
Roco blinked. "What?"
"Get out."
Nico didn't go far. Just as the boys stepped out of his study, he called one of the guards standing by the hallway.
"Marco," he said lazily, voice cool but sharp as ice.
"Yes, sir."
"Give them something to do. I don't want them sleeping tonight," Nico said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Something... exhausting."
The guard gave a slight bow. "Understood."
Nico didn't spare the boys another glance as he walked away. But in his mind, his thoughts burned darker.
Oh Ace… how I want to break those arms of yours so bad.
That smug face, that stupid teasing with Kyan… the way Kyan looked at him…
Nico clenched his jaw.
He lit another cigarette and didn't look back.
Nico waited.
Waited till the footsteps faded. Waited till the guard confirmed the boys had all gone out to scrub the entire backyard tiles with toothbrushes—his favorite punishment when he was in a mood.
Then he turned.
His boots echoed lightly as he walked into the room, door creaking just a little before it shut quietly behind him.
There, curled up on the lower bunk, was Kyan.
Fast asleep.
One leg tucked in, the other stretched halfway off the bed. Shirt slightly rumpled. That soft, clueless face pressed into the pillow. Lips parted, breathing calm.
Nico's eyes dropped to the side of his neck.
The hickeys.
His mark.
He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in slowly.
He reached out and touched one of the bruises lightly.
Kyan stirred. Blinked. Slowly opened his eyes, still drowsy.
Nico didn't move.
"Y-You," Kyan's voice came out hoarse. He sat up a bit, confused, sleep-drunk. "What're you doing h–?"
But he didn't finish.
Nico was still staring at the hickeys.
"You heal fast," he murmured, fingers still brushing gently.
Kyan swatted his hand away, cheeks flaring. "Don't touch me."
Nico's jaw twitched. He gripped Kyan's arm before he could turn fully away. Not hard, not painful—just firm enough to make his point.
Kyan's breath hitched.
That stupid flutter again. No, not now.
"Let go," Kyan said, trying to sound tough, even though his voice wavered slightly. "Don't grab me like you own me—"
"But I do," Nico said, his voice dropping low, dangerously low. "At least, for four damn hours you acted like I did."
Kyan's eyes flashed. "That was a mistake."
Nico blinked slowly. "A mistake?"
"You were drunk. I was drunk. It was just—stupid. A stupid, drunken mess, okay? It meant nothing."
Nico laughed once, dark and humorless. "You sure about that, softie?"
"I'm not yours," Kyan snapped, yanking his arm free. "And whatever the hell that was earlier—it's never happening again."
Nico's eyes darkened. "What the hell were you doing with Ace on that balcony?" His voice was low, sharp—almost a growl.
Kyan folded his arms. "Oh? You were watching?"
"I see everything in this damn house," Nico snapped.
Kyan raised a brow, smirking. "You're jealous."
"I'm not," Nico barked too quickly.
Kyan took a step closer, tilting his head. "You so are. Damn, Nico. Did it bother you seeing someone else close to your softie?"
Nico scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Tch. You think too highly of yourself."
"Do I?" Kyan crossed his arms again. "Because it looked like you were about to burn the terrace down."
Nico's jaw clenched. Then suddenly, with a bitter laugh, he said, "You were my first, you idiot."
Kyan blinked.
"What?"
"My first time," Nico said, stepping closer. "Do you know how many people would kill for that? For even one night with me?"
Kyan's lips parted, but no words came out.
"I gave that to you. And you're here playing truth or dare with Ace like none of it mattered?"
Kyan stared at him, his voice low. "I don't care about all that. I was brought here to serve the Lucianos. That's it."
Nico's voice dropped to a whisper. Dangerous. "Serving the Lucianos means serving me. Every. Damn. Way. Including in bed."
Kyan stood tall, even though his heart was racing. "I'm not some damn toy you can snap your fingers for."
Nico stared at him, lips tight, fists clenched at his sides.
"I don't care if you're the king of the mafia or if people line up to sleep with you," Kyan said, voice firm. "That doesn't mean I'll be one of them. I won't be your secret, and I won't be controlled."
For a second, Nico didn't speak. His jaw ticked, his eyes wild with something between rage and confusion.
Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Kyan dropped onto the bed, breathing hard.
Meanwhile, down the hall, Nico's steps echoed. Furious.
Everyone wants a piece of him. Always had. But that soft, stubborn idiot was the only one who dared to say no.
And damn it… that made him want him even more.
Damn softie.
He ran a hand through his hair, teeth grinding.
He wished he had a damn camera—just for that moment.
That exact moment when Kyan was breathless, his nails digging into Nico's skin, whispering his name like it meant something.
"Daddy…"
The way it left his lips—shaky, sweet, ruined.
Nico clenched his fists.
And now the little thing had the nerve to act cold? To look him in the eye and call it a mistake?
He scoffed to himself, dark eyes flashing.
If only he had a damn replay button for that night. He'd show it to softie every time he tried to pretend he didn't want it too.
Nico sat alone in his study, still shirtless, a few buttons of his trousers undone. His dark hair was messy—like how softie had tugged it hours ago.
He never Googled stupid things. Never.
But tonight?
He picked up his sleek black phone, unlocked it with a swipe… and typed:
"How to seduce someone playing hard to get."
He stared at it for a second, lips twitching at his own madness, then hit search.
And boom—
Result 1: "Slow burn seduction: 10 dangerous ways to make them crave you."
Result 2: "How to make them beg—without ever touching them."
Result 3: "Psychology tricks: Be his obsession without lifting a finger."
Result 4: "If he's shy, touch him. If he's stubborn, ruin him."
Result 5: "Soft boys are the easiest to break. They act like they don't want it… until they're begging."
Nico smirked, slow and wicked.
"Oh softie…" he murmured, eyes darkening.
"You're so finished."
Santi stepped into the study dristacting Nico , a glass of cold water balanced in his hand. No shirt. Just soft black sweats hanging low on his waist. The "N" tattoo on his chest was fully visible.
He had heard Nico ask a servant for water… but he got there first.
Of course he did..
"You asked for water," Santi said, voice casual, like his heart wasn't punching his ribs.
Nico looked up from his desk, expression unreadable. He reached out, fingers brushing against Santi's as he took the glass.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Santi didn't move. Just stood there.
Say something. Compliment the tattoo. Ask why he's not wearing a shirt. Something.
But Nico simply sipped the water, eyes drifting back to the papers in front of him like nothing was out of the ordinary.
Santi swallowed hard. His throat burned.
The glass hit the table with a soft thud. Nico didn't even look up. One hand on his jaw, the other flipping through papers—coldly.
Santi stayed rooted. Then leaned slightly forward, voice low.
"You look tired," he said, eyes dragging down Nico's arms. "Long night?"
"Leave," Nico muttered without blinking.
But Santi smirked. "Or maybe…" he stepped closer, "you need a distraction. I'm very good at those."
Nico finally looked up, his stare sharp. "Santi."
Santi's heart skipped. His name in that voice—rough, annoyed, deep.
"You think flirting your way into my space will make me want you?" Nico's tone was all edge.
Santi swallowed but kept his smile. "I think… I've wanted you for years. I'm just done hiding it."
Nico stood slowly, towering now. "You want something you can't have."
Santi whispered, "Then make me forget why I can't."
Nico's eyes dropped. He didn't mean to. His gaze just… landed there—right on Santi's bare chest.
On the sharp black "N" inked clean over his heart.
Nico froze.
His jaw tightened.
He didn't say a word—but his hand lifted, fingers brushing the mark like it meant something… like he remembered something.
Santi's breath hitched. Inside, he screamed,
Yes, Daddy. Yesss… look at it. Touch it like it matters. Like I matter.
But Nico snapped out of it fast, pulling his hand away like he touched fire.
"When the hell did you get that?" His voice dropped cold again.
Santi bit his bottom lip, leaning a little closer. "Got it when I realized the only man I wanted to love would never love me back."
Nico turned, pissed.
Santi smiled to himself.
But he looked.
He touched.
That cold bastard felt something.
Nico turned, reaching for a file on the desk—his shirt rising just enough to expose that sharp V line on his back.
Santi's breath caught.
Damn.
That V could ruin lives.
Mine included.
He blinked fast, trying to stay composed.
Santi stepped closer, voice low, sultry.
" hmm do you need a massage or something?"
His fingers hovered near Nico's tense shoulder. "I could help you… unwind."
Nico didn't even flinch. He turned around slowly, eyes sharp, cold.
"Don't you have somewhere else to fucking be?"
Santi blinked, lips parting. "I—"
"Leave, Santi."
Santi stood there for a second longer, swallowing hard… then forced a smile and stepped back.
"Sure, boss," he said quietly.
But inside, his heart was pounding.
Why the hell do I still want him?