Chapter Text
The dawn in Monte Carlo used to paint the sky with soft shades of pink and orange, but in those days, even the sun seemed shy, filtering cautiously through the blinds of the elegant but now gloomy Leclerc house. Charles, just ten years old, was a boy of clear routines: breakfast, the walk to school, karting practice, homework, and dinner. However, in recent weeks, an invisible fog of unease had settled in his home, disrupting the perfect order of his world.
He noticed the furtive glances between his parents, the way his mother, Pascale, bit her lower lip while reading the newspaper, and how his father, Hervé, turned the television on and off with a remote that seemed to weigh a ton. The interruptions in programming were becoming more frequent. A newsreader with an overly calm voice would appear to announce: "Sectors 3 and 5 are not passable this afternoon. Please take note and keep your family away from the area. We appreciate your understanding." Charles, with the innate curiosity of his age, would ask: "Why can't we go through, Dad?" The answer was always an evasive "Adult things, little one. Don't worry," accompanied by a pat on the shoulder meant to be reassuring but which felt fragile to Charles, like thin glass about to break.
He didn't know it, he couldn't conceptualize it yet, but it was the harsh friction of the war between mafias for control of the city. A silent and dirty conflict fought in alleys and luxurious offices, which was now beginning to breach the doors of respectable homes.
The turning point came with the meticulous and tense preparations for a dinner. His mother, a normally serene and organized woman, transformed into a whirlwind of neatly concealed anxiety. She cleaned every inch of the house until the scent of clean mixed with the smell of fear. The silverware was polished twice, the finest china was taken out of the cabinet, and the menu was rehearsed as if it were a life-or-death script. "Charles, Lorenzo, Arthur," she said, kneeling to be at their height, her voice an urgent whisper. "Tonight is very important. You must behave like gentlemen. Greet them, smile, and then you will go straight upstairs to your room. Do not come down under any circumstances until I come to get you. Is that clear?" Her tone, especially the severity with which she said "under any circumstances," sealed a certainty in Charles: this was not a simple social event.
Night arrived dressed in an unusual cold. The energy in the house was thick, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on the boy's arms stand on end. Charles could smell his mother's fear, a sour, metallic pheromone that his childish instinct, more animal than rational, identified as danger. He sat on the living room floor, hugging Leo, his lion stuffed animal, a birthday gift that was his talisman against the darkness. Beside him, Lorenzo, twelve years old, tried to read a comic, but his eyes weren't moving on the page. Arthur, the eight-year-old, played silently with toy soldiers, unaware of the depth of the tension but capturing its vibration like a seismograph.
The sound of the main door opening was a creak that echoed like a gunshot in the silent house. There was no doorbell. Charles held his breath. He heard his parents' voices, too cheerful, too forced, rising from the foyer.
Suddenly, the living room door opened without ceremony. It wasn't his mother. It was an older man in an expensive suit with a cold smile, followed by an entourage of four other men. It was Enzo and his retinue. But it was the last man to enter who froze Charles's blood. He was younger than the others, with eyes of an black that reflected no light and a smile that didn't reach his high cheekbones. His presence was a stain of oil in the room's clear water.
"Perceval, you're not nervous, are you?" said the older man, Enzo, with a false cordiality that sounded like mockery.
Hervé, Perceval to these men, struggled with his own voice to sound relaxed: "What are you talking about, Enzo? Sorry, I didn't hear your car. You are all welcome." He made a quick gesture toward his children. The three boys, like soldiers in formation, murmured in unison a "Good evening" that sounded ghostly.
"What beautiful children you have, Perceval," said the voice of the man with the cold eyes. It wasn't a compliment. It was an inventory. His eyes scanned Lorenzo, evaluated Charles, and settled, with disturbing interest, on Arthur. A shiver ran down Charles's back.
As they passed toward the dining room, the man stopped in front of them. He stroked Lorenzo's head with a hand that seemed made of stone. He ran it over Charles's hair, and the boy felt a cold sweat. Then he crouched in front of Arthur. He pinched his cheek with a force that was not playful. Arthur held back a whimper, his eyes filling with tears that didn't dare to fall. The man smiled, that same empty smile, and moved on. The air left behind was suffocating. The three brothers exhaled in unison, unaware they had been holding their breath. The survival instinct, primitive and pure, had spoken: these were predators.
Following orders to the letter, they went up to their shared bedroom. The hours dragged on, heavy and silent. Downstairs, only low murmurs could be heard, the occasional clinking of cutlery against china, a normal sound that, in that context, seemed grotesque. Lorenzo, assuming his role as the big brother, hugged Arthur, who had gone still and quiet, a rarity for him. Charles curled up on the bed, squeezing Leo against his chest, feeling his heartbeat as if it wanted to escape his body.
Then, hell broke loose.
A heart-wrenching scream from his mother cut through the night like a knife. It was followed by the crash of furniture overturning, glass breaking, and then a dull, terrible, final thud. A sound that didn't belong to any object, but to flesh and bone impacting with merciless violence. The silence that followed was even more terrifying.
Charles was paralyzed. His trembling was uncontrollable. Lorenzo stood up, pale, instinctively placing himself between the door and his brothers.
The footsteps on the stairs were slow, heavy, like those of an executioner ascending the scaffold. The bedroom door swung wide open. It was him, the man with the cold eyes. In his hand, the polished metal of a pistol glinted under the dim light of the lamp.
The room, once a sanctuary, transformed into an interrogation cell. The three boys huddled in a corner. Lorenzo, with a bravery that sprang from a source Charles didn't know, stretched out his arms to cover them.
"Good. We won't hurt you," the man said, and the lie was so obscene that even Arthur understood it. "I just need you to tell me your designations. Depending on that, you might settle debts that your parents... could not. Unfortunately." The pistol rose, aiming directly at Lorenzo. "You're the oldest. Speak."
Lorenzo swallowed. His voice was first a thread of air, but it strengthened, filled with a desperate desire to protect. "I... I am an Alpha. My brother Charles," he pointed with a trembling finger, "he is an Omega. And my younger brother..." His gaze met the man's, which shone with an unhealthy interest in Arthur. Lorenzo saw the future in those eyes and tried to twist it with a lie. "...he is an Alpha too."
"You're lying," the man's voice was flat, deadly. The pistol moved a millimeter, adjusting its aim. Charles felt himself wet his pants, the warm moisture soaking through, but the shame was nothing compared to the pure terror.
"Hand him over," the man ordered, extending his free hand toward Arthur. When Lorenzo, petrified, didn't move, the man released the safety on the pistol. The click sounded like thunder. He aimed next to Charles's head and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot filled the room, deafening. The plaster from the wall exploded inches from Charles, who screamed, clinging to his stuffed animal as if it were the anchor that would save him from being swept away by panic.
It was then that Arthur, the little one, the innocent, moved. He gently freed himself from Lorenzo's arm and, with a supernatural and terrifying calm, took a step forward. He put his finger to his mouth, a childish gesture of needing comfort that contrasted brutally with the scene. Lorenzo broke into silent tears, streams running down his cheeks, but he didn't dare move. He knew a single gesture could be a death sentence.
The man crouched, level with the child. His pistol rested on his knee. With the same hand that had pulled the trigger, he stroked Arthur's face.
"Good. He understands," he murmured. "What are you, little one? An Alpha, like your brother says? Or an Omega? If you lie... and then we test you... your older brother will die."
Arthur slowly turned his head. His eyes, large and full of tears, looked at Lorenzo, who was covering his mouth with both hands to stifle sobs. He saw Charles, trembling like a leaf, clinging to his stuffed lion, his world shattered. Then, he turned his gaze back to the man. His voice was a clear whisper, innocent, and, because of that, devastatingly tragic.
"I... haven't presented yet. But mom and dad say... I will be an Alpha."
He had chosen the answer he believed would save Lorenzo. He had understood the perverse game of life and death at eight years old. The man watched him for an eternity, and then a slow, satisfied, cruel smile spread across his lips. It was the smile of someone who had found spoils of war, a future treasure.
Charles Leclerc, at ten years old, witnessed the world shatter into a thousand inconceivable pieces. That night, innocence did not die with a sigh, but with a gunshot, a child's lie, and the empty smile of a monster. And he knew, with a certainty that would burn his soul forever, that sometimes hell is not somewhere else. It is in your dining room, it climbs the stairs, and it finds you hiding in your room, curled around a stuffed animal, while it negotiates your family's fate with the coldness of someone choosing a cut of meat.