Lucien lay sprawled across his bed, restless and hollow. He hadn't felt this helpless since the night his parents died. A car accident, they'd said.
But a Capo de Capi taken down by a "simple" crash? It was laughable, anticlimactic. Unworthy of a mafia king.
And when his mind spiraled like this, it always dragged him back to the memory of their faces the day they discovered that he was an omega. Pain, sorrow, desperation… but the worst of it was the disappointment in his father's eyes.
That look never stopped haunting him.
Maybe his mother hadn't died from a heart attack after all. Maybe it had been grief. Stress. The unbearable shame of birthing a "defective heir." Perhaps her heart had given up because of him.
And when his father remarried, bringing home another alpha son, Lucien had thought it was over. He'd be discarded like an old guard dog, replaced with something stronger.
But he wasn't.
"Am I cursed or something?" he muttered, rolling onto his back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.
Why would God create omegas only to condemn them to humiliation?
"But then again," he scoffed, "I don't believe in God."
He was still brooding in his twenty-seven-year-old existential crisis when his phone buzzed. A notification lit the screen: movement detected outside his door.
Lucien sat up, swiping open the CCTV feed, and froze. His eyes widened before he bolted for the door.
"Grandpa!" he breathed.
Standing there was the old man himself: gray hair, wrinkled skin, eyes still piercing blue and sharp.
Beside him, a younger man hovered, but Lucien barely noticed because Salvatore de Luca, the infamous Basilic, stood in the doorway wearing… a gas mask.
The old don spread his arms wide. "Ohhh, amore mio! Come, hug your grandpa!"
Lucien stopped short, narrowing his eyes. "Is that mask necessary?"
"Yes. To prevent… things we don't want."
Lucien sighed, rolling his eyes. This was the part of being an omega he despised—everyone treated him like he was radioactive. Everyone except his mother.
"I don't think my scent is that toxic," he grumbled.
The three of them settled on the couch before the fireplace. Lucien crossed his legs, watching his grandfather—the once-mighty Basilic—now ravaged by age.
Yet his shadow still lingered, the legend of the man who had laid the foundation of Luceros, feared and respected alike.
And Lucien had inherited his methods. His ruthlessness. His will to rule.
"Hm…" Salvatore's voice was careful. "Do you feel flushed? Or… horny?"
Lucien groaned, covering his face. "Ugh, please. Just leave me here with Juan."
"What?! What if he hurts you?!"
"Oh, please. We'll be fine… right, doctor?" Lucien turned to Juan, the middle-aged researcher sitting politely, brown hair and hazel eyes visible beneath his mask.
Juan tilted his head. "Depends on how good your—"
Before he could finish, Salvatore's hand shot out and latched around his throat. "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING ABOUT MY GRANDSON?!"
"C-CALM DOWN!" Juan wheezed, his face turning blue.
"Grandpa, you do realize he's one of our greatest assets, right?" Lucien drawled, arms crossed.
He wasn't exaggerating. Juan was the crown jewel of Luceros' research division—creator of drugs, enhancers, even the famous aphrodisiac Lune Kiss. Without him, half of their empire would crumble.
"Tch." Salvatore finally released him, leaving Juan hacking and gasping for air.
After Juan finally caught his breath, he straightened his back with a cough. "W-well… It's better for you to get another shot today. For everyone's sake."
Lucien only nodded, rolling up his sleeve. Juan pulled a syringe and an alcohol swab from his pristine white doctor's coat.
The syringe's liquid glowed faintly white: Lune Noire. Juan had named it himself, of course. The man was obsessed with the moon.
Lune Noire was custom-made, strictly rationed, and sold only with group approval to clients who could pay the highest price. And here Lucien was, injecting it like it was tap water.
"But… boss," Juan said carefully, preparing the needle, "this suppressant usually lasts half a year. You just got your shot a month ago. Did something happen?"
Lucien froze. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw tight. "…Nothing."
Juan tilted his head. "Did you… Meet an alpha? Because if so, he might be your fated one."
Lucien nearly had a heart attack. His pupils blew wide, and sweat trickled down his temple. 'Fated mate? What the actual fuck? There is no way that devil is—'
Salvatore leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What is this? Did you really meet your alpha? Was it the one who killed your men?" His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and impatient, gray eyes burning into him.
Lucien forced a laugh, masking his nerves. "Of course not! That's just a myth." He shot Juan a glare. "Stop talking nonsense and do your job."
But Juan was Juan: recklessly blunt, forever poking the bear. "This is important for the drug's development."
"If we know why the suppressant weakens early, we can prevent it from happening again." He tossed the used syringe neatly into the trash. "So… you need to be honest, boss."
Lucien's glare could have killed a lesser man, but Juan held his gaze unfazed. Annoyance twisted Lucien's gut, but damn it, the doctor wasn't wrong.
Lune Noire had never failed before. The only explanation was… unthinkable. Impossible. Not even Reznik could do that! This wasn't his, there must be something wrong with the drug!
"I told you. Nothing happened," Lucien bit out. "Bad batch, that's all."
Juan sighed, unconvinced, but let it drop. Silence settled, each of them lost in different thoughts.
***
Elsewhere, the air was far from quiet.
"I told you not to meet him yet!" Vincent's hand slammed the table, rattling glasses. His face was twisted with fury. "It wasn't part of our agreement!"
The man across from him only chuckled, reclining lazily in the velvet chair. Crimson hair spilled over the fabric like blood, his smile sharp, amused.
"Yesterday. Tomorrow. The exact date—" his voice dropped low, rich as sin, "—what's the difference?"
Golden eyes glinted like fire in the dark.
"He'll be mine anyway."