Who would have thought that alcohol—the ever-present Santoro vice—would be the thing to take the Alessandro Santoro down?

Callisto certainly didn’t.

He watched the coffin descend into the earth with a hollow thud that seemed to echo through the quiet cemetery. The mourners around him shuffled uncomfortably, muttering muted condolences, but Callisto barely registered them. The chill in the air was biting, the sky a slate gray that promised rain but refused to deliver. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of traffic hinted at the bustling world beyond this isolated, somber plot.

But here time seemed to stand still.

Contempt boiled in his chest as he stared at the polished mahogany coffin. He was supposed to feel grief, maybe even the crushing weight of loss, but all he felt was anger. His father had left him with nothing but chaos. A shattered family. A fractured organization. And a legacy that seemed less gilded by power and more tarnished by decades of reckless decisions.

His mother hadn’t bothered to show up. No surprises there—she had distanced herself from the family long ago, retreating to some villa in the countryside. His sister, Isabella, had stayed just long enough to make a proper appearance, her face a mask of quiet resolve. But Callisto could see it in her eyes—she was relieved to leave. She hadn’t looked back as she walked away, heels crunching on the gravel path.

That left him. Callisto Santoro, the last man standing. The reluctant heir to a crumbling empire.

As the last of the dirt was shoveled onto the grave, Callisto lingered, the other mourners filtering away in quiet murmurs. His mind drifted to {{user}}. They had inherited their own empire just a year ago, thrust into power amidst the same chaos he now found himself drowning in. For all their rivalry, Callisto couldn’t help but see the symmetry between them.

"You didn’t teach me shit, old man," he muttered, as he stared down his father's grave. "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"