Foca parked at the driveway in front of the main door. As the three of them stepped out, he was immediately greeted by the family's valet, Xavier.
"Greetings, young sir. It's good to see you," the middle-aged man said with a respectful nod.
"Good to see you too, Xavier. Is Uncle Seb in?" Foca replied, effortlessly handing over his keys like someone who's been doing this since birth.
"Yes, the head butler has been expecting you and your friends. He's waiting in the foyer, young sir."
"Thanks for the heads up." Foca offered a warm smile, then rejoined Luca and Tuesday.
"My pleasure, young sir. Have a good day." Xavier bowed before slipping into the car to park and clean it.
"You know," Tuesday muttered as they walked across the cobble-paved steps toward the main entrance, "no matter how many times I visit your parents' house… this shit will never feel normal. Everything is so extra."
"What do you mean extra? These are just basic amenities," Foca said — completely sincere.
Luca and Tuesday burst out laughing, the tension melting off their shoulders.
As they entered the mansion, a wave of controlled elegance hit them like a cool breeze.
The interior was a masterpiece:
A sweeping double staircase in dark walnut curved upward like a pair of open arms, accented with soft under-step lighting that made the whole foyer glow. Floor-to-ceiling windows drenched the space in sunlight, catching on the polished Italian marble floors veined with gold. Art pieces — originals, of course — lined the walls, each spotlighted with museum-grade precision. A massive crystal light installation floated above them like a constellation frozen mid-burst. It was wealth, but quiet about it… the kind of quiet that came from knowing it never had to explain itself.
And in the center of that display stood Sebastian.
The head butler looked every bit the legend he was rumored to be — a man in his late 70s who still carried himself with the spine of a soldier and the grace of a diplomat. Crisp black suit, leather dress shoes polished to a mirror finish, and immaculate white hair that somehow made him look like he was in his early fifties.
"Welcome back, young master. It's good to see you in good health," Sebastian said with a small bow.
"Uncle Seb, likewise. Always a joy to see you looking this healthy," Foca said, hugging him. Seb returned it with the warmth of someone who'd practically raised him.
"Yo, Uncle Seb. Long time no see," Luca chimed in.
"Ah… Mr. Giovanni. Always a pleasure. And I see you have finally learned to dress appropriately." Sebastian's eyes flicked over Luca with elegant, surgical shade.
"Why you gotta do me dirty like that, Uncle Seb…" Luca pouted, shoulders dropping.
Sebastian's lips twitched — the closest he ever got to outright laughing — before turning to Tuesday.
"And Miss Summers. Radiant as always." He extended a hand.
"You really don't hold back on the compliments, Uncle Seb," Tuesday said, flattered as she shook his hand.
"I only speak the truth."
Then Sebastian's tone shifted — subtly, but enough to make all three feel it.
"Master and Madame are waiting for you in the master's study and—"
He hesitated. Hard.
"And?" Foca raised a brow.
"Your three older siblings are also with them."
"What?" Foca stared. "How did they even know I was coming? I only called you last night."
"My sincerest apologies, young master. They… somehow caught wind of your visit."
"It's fine." Foca sighed, sounding like someone preparing for war. "They're already here. Let's just get it over with."
Now standing before the double doors of his father's study, Foca inhaled deeply. It was the kind of breath one takes before battle, before a firing squad, or before facing three very intense, very clingy older siblings.
He pushed the doors open.
"Father—"
He didn't even get to finish.
Three pairs of arms immediately slammed into him from all angles.
"You're here! Our little bread!" Jonathan boomed, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"Little bread, we missed you!" Pearl squealed as she planted a big, unapologetically wet kiss on his cheek.
Alexandrite didn't speak—he just latched onto him like a sleepy koala with a death grip.
"It's always… great to see you guys too. But if you… don't mind releasing me… I can't— breathe—" Foca managed to choke out as his lungs were squeezed by three human boa constrictors.
"Get off of him."
The voice cut through the room—stern, warm, authoritative.
Like magic, the siblings dropped him.
Air. Blessed air. Foca gasped dramatically, hands on knees, coughing like an old man in a telenovela.
Then he felt a warm, familiar hand on his back — one that somehow made everything instantly okay.
He looked up and saw his mother.
"My sweet baby… I'm so glad you visited," Leonor said, her voice soft enough to cure migraines. The petite Filipina beauty wrapped him in a gentle hug. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too, Mom." He melted into her arms, realizing how much he actually needed this.
When she stepped back, a tall, striking Frenchman approached—broad shoulders, elegant posture, jawline sharp enough to cut a diamond.
"Little bread," Vincent rumbled as he pulled his son into a firm, fatherly embrace, "I've missed you, son."
"I missed you too, Dad," Foca said, trying very hard not to get misty.
Once the emotional whirlwind calmed down, the family finally remembered the two other humans standing in the room.
Luca received bro hugs—firm, back-slapping, borderline painful ones.
Tuesday received air-kisses on both cheeks—the no-contact kind, because they respected the glam.
During Vincent's greeting, Luca blurted out:
"Damn, Uncle Vincent… did you get even more jacked?!"
"I frequent the gym more often now," Vincent replied, clearly pleased with himself. "It is important to stay healthy."
After several minutes of greetings, everyone finally took their seats.
The trio settled on the long sofa facing the grand mahogany desk where Vincent sat like the CEO of every Fortune 500 company combined. Jonathan, Pearl, Alex, and Leonor occupied individual armchairs arranged around a clear crystal coffee table. At its center sat a jade pottery piece older than the entire European continent—probably.
"May I entertain you with refreshments?" Sebastian asked as he appeared silently, like a luxurious ghost.
Everyone lifted a hand in quiet acknowledgment.
Sebastian nodded—already knowing exactly who drank what, how they liked it, and the temperature each glass should be.
Looking at them all together, the family was unfairly aesthetic. Straight-up illegal.
Vincent De Clairmontin — Mid-50s, looks late 30s. Towering, jacked, handsome as it gets. Carries himself with the poise of royalty and the silent intimidation of a monarch who could conquer a small country with a raised eyebrow.
Leonor Habagat-De Clairmontin — Also mid-50s, looks early 30s. A timeless Filipina beauty with eyes full of warmth, a smile that disarms, and the grounding energy that keeps the entire clan from launching themselves into the stratosphere.
Jonathan De Clairmontin — Eldest, perfect heir, mid-30s but looks late 20s. Fit, polished, charismatic. Everyone calls him "the perfect successor," which he pretends to hate but secretly thrives on.
Pearl De Clairmontin — Second-born, the older twin by ten minutes. Stunning, sharp, philanthropic, and terrifyingly good at business. Looks like a goddess; negotiates like a shark.
Alexandrite De Clairmontin — Younger twin. Quiet beauty, soft features, permanent sleepy charm. Ridiculously intelligent. Spends most of his time in a lab working on something so confidential it could get a person erased from the planet. Looks early 20s, actually late 20s.
The room was a magazine spread — wealth, power, and aesthetic genetics working overtime.