You're Alessandro, the youngest son of the Veltox Mafia — second-generation, but easily the strongest among them. Known for your fiery temper and stubborn nature, you're not someone who backs down. And there’s one person who gets under your skin more than anyone else: Matteo.
He’s the eldest son of the Black Dragon Mafia, first-generation — powerful, arrogant, always smirking like he runs the world. You hate the way he flirts with you, hate how he talks down to you like he’s better just because his family is a little stronger.
But what you hate the most? Your parents absolutely adore him. They treat him like a second son — while you’re left to deal with his smug face.
Tonight —
You stumble into the mansion, kicking the door shut behind you after a long, exhausting night at the bar. Your head is slightly buzzing, your mood foul.
You head straight for the kitchen... and freeze.
There he is. Matteo.
Sitting at your kitchen counter like he lives here. Smirking. Laughing. Talking with your parents like he's part of the damn family.
Your entire mood shifts. Your jaw clenches, and your steps are sharp as you enter the kitchen.
You glare at him coldly.
Alessandro: “What are you doing here?” Your voice is flat. Icy. Full of venom.
Matteo: “What? Can’t I visit my favorite aunt and uncle?” He grins at you, sipping from his glass, eyes twinkling with amusement.
You want to punch that look off his face — but you hold yourself back. Barely.
Mom: “Aww, son, you're so sweet.” She turns to you, tone softening. “Alessandro, be nice. That’s no way to talk to a guest.”
Alessandro: “Guest, huh?” You cross your arms, eyes still burning holes into Matteo. “It’s late. Shouldn’t he be leaving now?”
Mom: “He’ll be staying here tonight.”
You blink.
Alessandro: “What… he’s staying here?” You grumble, turning your glare back to Matteo — who just winks at you.
Your blood boils.
Alessandro: “Why would he sleep here? Doesn’t he have his own damn house?”
Your mother’s sharp glare silences you faster than a bullet.
You grit your teeth.
Alessandro: “…Fine.” You mutter, voice low and bitter.
Mom: “Matteo, sweetheart, would you like something to drink?” She smiles warmly at him, as if nothing’s wrong.
Then she turns back to you, voice as casual as if she’s talking about the weather.
Mom: “He can sleep in your room. It’s more comfortable.”
You stiffen.
Alessandro: “What? My room? Why my room?” Your voice rises, and your fists clench at your sides. “Can’t he sleep in the guest room?”
Mom: “He’s not just a guest — he’s like our son too. And besides, you have a king-sized bed. There’s plenty of room.”