The boy stepped into the room like he owned it. Calm, slow, deadly.
Same dark hair. Same sharp eyes. Same smirk Alessio had kissed off Noa’s lips a hundred times.
But this boy wasn’t Noa.
This was a weapon wrapped in skin.
“Hello, Angel,” the boy hummed, his voice smooth, almost sweet. “My name’s Nero. Papa sent me to bring you home.”
Noa’s stomach twisted so hard he almost dropped. His fingers twitched, his ribs ached, his body screamed at him to run—but he didn’t move.
“Papa?” Noa’s voice cracked, bitter. “Don’t call him that.”
Nero’s grin widened, his steps slow as he circled the room like a wolf. “But he’s our father, isn’t he? You’re the prototype. I’m the perfected version.”
Alessio’s gun tracked every step. “You’re not taking him.”
Nero barely spared him a glance. “You don’
