4
Christian
23 Years Ago…
The smell of rosemary and roast lamb filled the air, wrapping around us like an embrace. My mother hummed softly as she set down a bowl of roasted potatoes, her eyes lighting up when she looked at me.
"There," she said, smoothing her hands down her apron as she took her seat. "A proper meal for once."
I smirked. "You say that like we don't eat every night."
She chuckled. "Not all together. And not when you're too busy with your books to remember food exists."
My father, Dante Royal, sat at the head of the table, as always. A man of few words, his presence commanded without effort. His gaze flicked toward me, unreadable.
"Your mother's right. You've been working hard in school."
My mother beamed at his acknowledgment. "And he's top of his class."
Dante gave a small nod. "That's expected."
That was as close to praise as I'd ever get from him. Still, it was enough to put a small swell of pride in my chest. I speared a piece of lamb, savoring the rare peace we had tonight.
But something felt… off.
There was a strange tension in the air. My mother's smile, as bright as it was, didn't quite reach her eyes. My father, though composed, was unusually quiet.
Then, he set down his glass. The clink of crystal against wood cut through the silence.
"Christian." His voice was sharp. Commanding. "Go upstairs. Get my briefcase from my study."
I frowned slightly, chewing the inside of my cheek. "Now?"
His eyes hardened. "Now."
I swallowed my questions and pushed my chair back. "Alright."
As I made my way upstairs, my footsteps echoed in the silence. A strange unease crawled up my spine. Maybe I was imagining things.
I reached my father's study, the familiar scent of leather and old books greeting me. The briefcase was right where he always kept it—on the mahogany desk, beside a half-smoked cigar.
I grabbed it, turned—
A loud crash.
A chair scraping violently against the floor.
Then—my mother's scream.
Cold fear sliced through me. I bolted.
When I reached the dining room, the world I knew shattered.
Two masked men stood in the room, guns trained on my parents.
My mother clutched the edge of the table, face pale, eyes wild with terror. My father sat frozen, his normally unshakable demeanor cracked in a way I'd never seen before.
I barely had time to process before I acted.
"HEY!" I roared, charging forward.
I didn't get far.
A rough hand grabbed me from behind. An arm wrapped around my chest, pinning my arms, yanking me back.
"Let go of me, you piece of—" I struggled violently, twisting, kicking, doing everything I could to break free.
The grip only tightened.
"Hold still, kid." The man's breath was hot against my ear.
"Christian!" My mother's voice was desperate. She took a shaky step forward, hands trembling. "Please! He's just a boy—don't hurt him. Please!"
My struggles turned frantic.
The man restraining me let out an annoyed grunt. "Little shit won't quit—"
A knife sliced through my collarbone—sharp, searing.
I gasped, my body jerking as fire spread through my veins. My knees buckled. Blood trickled down my chest, soaking into my shirt.
My mother let out a broken sob. "No, no, please—"
She tried to rush toward me, but the second man grabbed her wrist, yanking her back.
"Shut up," he barked.
Her breath hitched. She turned desperate eyes to my father. "Dante, do something!"
But my father—he didn't move.
He just sat there. Hands clenched into fists. Face pale.
He looked like he wanted to do something. But he didn't. He couldn't.
A sick feeling settled in my stomach.
Why wasn't he fighting?
The man restraining me let out a dark chuckle. "Rich fucks always freeze up when shit gets real."
Then—
BANG.
The gunshot ripped through the air.
My mother's body jerked.
I watched—helpless, frozen—as her knees buckled. As she crumpled to the ground. As crimson spread across the white silk of her blouse.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then—I screamed.
A sound tore from my throat that I didn't recognize. Raw. Animalistic.
I shoved against the man holding me, blind with rage and pain, but he threw me forward, and I collapsed onto the floor.
My vision swam. My breath came in ragged gasps.
The gunman stepped back, lowering the gun like it was nothing. "That's it. We're done here."
My father still didn't move.
The men turned and walked out, their footsteps fading into the night.
I didn't care about them anymore.
I crawled—painfully, desperately—toward my mother. My hands shook as I touched her face.
Her skin was warm. Her eyes—empty.
"No," I whispered.
This wasn't happening.
This wasn't real.
I pressed a hand to her wound, as if I could somehow stop the bleeding. My fingers came away coated in red.
A choked sob tore through me.
My mother was dead.
And my father—
I turned my head. He was still in his seat. Ashen-faced. Hands trembling slightly.
He hadn't stopped them.
He hadn't fought back.
Rage, thick and suffocating, wrapped around my grief like a vice.
I wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Demand why he let this happen.
But all I could do was press my forehead against my mother's and whisper, over and over—
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
But she couldn't hear me anymore.
And in that moment, as the scent of rosemary and blood filled my lungs—
I knew I would never be the same again
Present Day
I sat back in the quiet of my penthouse bar, the hum of jazz mingling with the distant crash of waves against the Hamptons' coastline. The world outside felt so far removed from my reality, yet every glance outside only reminded me of the things I couldn't escape. I'd let myself drown in the silence for a while, but tonight, Oliver dragged Alex along for good measure.
Oliver and I had been through everything together. His home had been my refuge after my mother died, the place I found any semblance of peace when my own family—particularly my father—was a constant reminder of what I'd lost. He was the one constant in my life, and though his family was always busy, they never let me feel like an outsider. He was the CEO of NovaVox Global—one of North America's largest family-run media entertainment empires—and though it wasn't his first choice, he ran it with a level of carefree ease that I envied.
Alex, on the other hand, was a different story. Self-made, a quiet force of nature. His airline empire spanned continents, and he was a force in creating advanced military weapons for nations around the world. He came from nothing—poverty that never showed on his tailored suits. I respected him more than most, even though he could never quite let go of his past.
As the minutes dragged on, Oliver leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink with that signature grin of his. "You've been ignoring my invites for weeks, Christian. I decided to bring the drinks instead."
I couldn't help but smirk, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Our invites, or just yours?" I quipped, raising an eyebrow. Oliver laughed, a low rumble, but the distraction was brief.
I nodded, barely listening as my phone buzzed on the table. I knew who it was before I even looked. Dante. My father. The man who'd spent years pushing me to be something I wasn't, telling me what to do, when to do it, and how. I glanced at the screen for a moment, then answered without hesitation.
"What do I owe this pleasure?" My voice was cold, detached, with none of the usual warmth one might expect from a son to his father.
The silence on the other end dragged on before Dante's voice filled the air, smooth but laced with a quiet disdain. "Christian. Always a pleasure. I saw you closed the deal with Hawthorne Global. Congratulations." His tone barely hid his disinterest, but I was used to it.
"Thanks, Father," I replied, keeping it short. "I'm sure you're not impressed, though."
The pause from Dante was heavy, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "It's a fine deal."
I held back a scoff. Damian. My stepbrother. The golden boy in Dante's eyes. The one who could do no wrong, no matter how little he actually earned. The one who was always praised for existing.
I couldn't keep the edge out of my voice. "Cut the bullshit."
There was another long pause on the other end. Dante didn't seem surprised by my reaction. "I can't even check on my son? Congratulate him for closing such a big deal?"
"No, you can't," I said, my voice clipped, no hint of emotion in it. "You can't do that, because you don't care about anything but keeping your legacy intact. It's all about what you want."
Dante didn't respond right away, and I let the silence hang between us like a thick fog.
"I'll see you this weekend," he said finally, his tone more commanding now. "I need to speak to you in person. There are things we need to address."
I didn't say anything at first. I wanted to hang up, to dismiss him, but I knew that would only invite more problems later. I took a deep breath, letting the weight of the conversation press down on me before I spoke again.
"Fine." I ended the call without waiting for a response.
I didn't move immediately, letting the quiet of the penthouse settle back in. I hadn't said much, but the conversation had drained me more than I cared to admit. Oliver was the first to break the silence.
"You sure know how to keep things interesting," he said, smirking. "Your old man still trying to put you in your place?"
I didn't respond right away, just took another slow sip of my drink. Alex was watching me carefully, his face unreadable. He wasn't the type to get caught up in drama, especially not family drama. But even he could tell that something in me had shifted. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs.
"I didn't even want to vote for you in the first place," Alex said, breaking the tension with his usual dry humor. "I don't know why I bother sometimes."
Oliver chuckled, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't work. The conversation was getting to me, and I knew that I couldn't keep avoiding the truth. Dante wasn't going to stop until I followed his orders, and I wasn't going to back down either.
Oliver leaned forward, his smile slipping slightly. "So, what's the plan, Christian? You going to let him walk all over you like that?"
I shook my head. "It's not that simple."
I pushed the glass away, my gaze hardening. "I'll see him this weekend, but it's not about him. It's about what I want. I'm done playing by his rules."
Alex nodded, as if he understood, though he knew I wasn't telling him everything. There were things about my past, about Dante, that I didn't talk about. But tonight, I wasn't in the mood to explain. I stood up, signaling the end of the conversation.
"Thanks for the drink, now get out." I said, pushing the chair back. I didn't wait for a response. I needed to be alone with my thoughts.
Oliver tried to protest, but I was already halfway to the door. "I'll see you later, Christian," Alex said, his voice calm, unaffected by my abrupt departure.
I watched them leave, the penthouse grew silent again, the city lights twinkling outside, but no amount of light could push back the darkness inside.