Their vichle halted in the mansion's inner courtyard, engines cutting off in unison, leaving only the distant wail of city sirens filtering through the high walls like echoes from another world. Cathy glanced around as the doors opened, her sharp eyes catching the subtle signs immediately—the bodyguards' hands trembling as they secured the perimeter, fingers fumbling slightly on holsters, legs shifting with that faint quiver of men who'd stared into an abyss and barely walked away. One wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve, eyes darting to the shadows as if expecting the flames to follow them home; another gripped his radio too tightly, knuckles white, his breath visible in short puffs despite the mild night. They hovered close as Vincenzo emerged, their awe and fear palpable, hands extending tentatively to offer support, loyalty overriding the terror etched in their faces.
Cathy glared at them, her expression a blade—cold, unyielding, daring them to step closer. They retracted instantly, eyes lowering in a mix of respect and unease, knowing their place but unable to hide the shake in their limbs. She tightened her arm around Vincenzo's waist, supporting his weight as he stepped out, his injured leg dragging slightly on the gravel, the bandage dark with fresh blood. He was still in deep thought, his blank gaze fixed on some distant point, expressionless as ever, the night's horrors seemingly absorbed without a ripple on his surface. Cathy felt it in the way he leaned—just enough to acknowledge her, but not enough to need her—his presence a quiet anchor that made her own resolve steel further, even as the weight of what she'd witnessed pressed on her chest.
Luca and Enzho stood at the mansion's threshold, heads bowed slightly, the warm light from the open doors casting long shadows across their faces. Their legs trembled faintly—a subtle quiver, barely noticeable unless you knew to look, born from the realization that the blast wasn't a skirmish but a catastrophe, the kind that drew global eyes, headlines screaming terrorism from every corner of the world. Networks looped the footage endlessly, diplomats murmuring about instability, investigators from federal agencies already en route. Their loyalty had deepened in the fire's glow, turning Vincenzo into something almost divine, but so had their fear—the scale of it all shaking even their hardened cores. They finally looked up as Vincenzo approached, supported by Cathy, their faces pale, words caught in throats tightened by the night's weight, unable to speak yet as awe held them silent.
Before Vincenzo could address them, Luca's voice broke the tension, harsh and unrelenting, his strategic calm fracturing into raw anger fueled by terror. "What the hell were you thinking, Cathy?" he snapped, stepping forward, eyes blazing as he gestured wildly at her. "Rushing straight to him from school? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? The crowd out there—they weren't just yelling, they were a horde, ready to rip anything with our name to shreds! Rocks flying, people dying everywhere—you could've been trampled, or worse!" Enzho joined in, his aggressive nature sharpening the scolding, voice rough and booming, legs still quivering as he paced a step. "You should've gone home—straight home, like we told you! What if something bad happened? The blast leveled the place, innocents mangled, and you put yourself right in the middle? We're your brothers—we're supposed to keep you safe, not chase after your reckless ass!"
The words piled on, relentless and cutting, their voices overlapping in a barrage that filled the courtyard like thunder. Luca's face reddened, his pragmatism giving way to panic: "You saw it—the destruction, the bodies twisted, blood everywhere! And you charge in like it's nothing? We can't afford mistakes like that—not now, not with the world watching!" Enzho nodded fiercely, his loyalty clashing with the fear that Vincenzo might see their failure, disappointment a fate worse than death. "Damn it, Cathy, think for once! We told you to stay put, but no—you run to the fire? What if you got hurt? What then?" The scolding was too harsh, driven by the gnawing dread that Vincenzo would blame them for not protecting family, their trembling legs a testament to the stakes—even knowing he wouldn't harm them, the thought of his quiet disapproval was a shadow that could eclipse everything.
Vincenzo's voice cut through then, cold and even, stopping them dead. "It's ok. She is fine." The words were simple, but they landed with absolute weight, the trembling in their legs easing as his gaze swept over them. He shifted slightly, still leaning on Cathy, and asked quietly, "Where are the others?"
Luca and Enzho exchanged a glance, looking elsewhere—eyes darting to the mansion's lit windows, the gravel underfoot, the distant gates—anywhere but Vincenzo's face. They didn't want to say it, the news heavy as the rubble they'd left behind, but his presence demanded truth. Luca spoke first, voice low and hesitant: "They're inside... waiting. It's bad." Enzho added, swallowing hard: "aunt clara—she's in her room, crying. Saw the destruction on the news, the innocents harmed... she's saying we're all devils." Their words hung there, the fear evident in their reluctance, but Vincenzo's blank expression urged them on.
Inside the mansion, the family had gathered in the grand sitting room, the space feeling smaller tonight under the weight of grief and shock. Clara sat huddled on a sofa, her face buried in her hands, sobs wracking her body in unrelenting waves, her guilt and trauma surfacing like a storm long suppressed. "How many innocents?" she whispered between tears, voice breaking as she rocked slightly, haunted by the images on the muted TV—bodies pulled from debris, faces deformed by shrapnel, limbs twisted in agony. "Harmed, killed... for what? We're devils—all of us. The blood on our hands... it never washes away."
Isabella sat beside her, arm around Clara's shoulders, her pure-hearted nature clashing with the darkness, frustration mixing with her own quiet sobs. "This isn't right... but it's us. The hatred out there—it's because of what people think we are.
Devils, clara? Maybe you're right. The innocents deformed, dead... how do we live with that?"
The two aunts—Anna and Elena—hovered nearby, their protective instincts turned inward, faces pale as they exchanged worried glances. Anna, Rafael's wife, paced slowly, her bitter expression softened by tears: "The world's watching now—international news, calling it terrorism. Those poor people... mangled, families broken. We're devils if we let this define us."
Elena, Marco's wife, nodded, her practical demeanor cracking as she wiped her eyes: "Clara's not wrong. Devils—we hide behind his name, but the harm... it's too much. The deformed, the dead staring from the screens... what have we become?"
Lucia, the youngest sister, sat in a corner chair, emotional, trembling and resentful, hugging her knees as tears streamed: "Why us? The innocents... they're gone because of him and we are getting called Devils again
—that's what they call us, and maybe it's true." Antonio, the reckless brother, stood by the window, fists clenched, idolizing Vincenzo but shaken.
"This is war now... but the harm to those people? It's wrong." Klein and Frank, the analytical cousins, murmured low, Klein's voice steady but troubled: "The scale... international focus. We're exposed." Frank, the moral one, shook his head: "Devils? If we don't stop this, yes."
Rafael and Marco, the uncles, stood apart, Rafael's pragmatic mind racing: "This changes everything—the innocents harmed, the world watching."
Marco nodded bitterly: "Devils... if that's what we are, we fight like it."
Nick, the arrogant cousin, paced with false bravado: "Let them call us devils—we'll show them."
Mia, the innocent kindergartener, slept in a side room, unaware, protected by the family's silent vow.
As Vincenzo and Cathy entered, the room fell silent, all eyes turning to him—their anchor, their fear, their devil in the flesh.