Revenge had the cold, metallic taste of a victory just beginning to be savored. For Cristian, every step forward in his career was a step toward his ultimate goal: destroying the happiness his father had found. The Milanese air, tense and frantic, was the perfect backdrop for his thoughts. He was driving home, phone in hand, his face a mask of calculated indifference.
It was the wait at a red light that broke his concentration. Among the crowd of commuters, one figure caught his eye. A tall, extremely thin boy with a somewhat awkward gait and an aura of almost otherworldly detachment. His hair, a dark blonde similar to Juglian's, had a strange peculiarity: the top section was stark white. Cristian watched him with a mix of annoyance and curiosity, wondering who this strange boy was.
Then the figure shifted, and the wind slightly lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt. It was only a moment, but it was enough to make Cristian's blood run cold. On the boy's shoulder, clearly visible, was a tattoo. Not just any tattoo, but a simple five-pointed star. The exact same one Juglian carried on his chest. Cristian's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't possible. That symbol was private—a seal.
Without a second thought, he jumped out of his car, leaving the furious honking of traffic behind him. "Hey, you!" he shouted.
Near turned slowly, his large brown eyes scrutinizing Cristian with an indecipherable expression. It was like looking into an abyss of silent intelligence. There was no emotion, only cold analysis.
"Do you know me?" Near murmured, his voice a whisper devoid of warmth.
"Who the hell are you? Why do you have that tattoo?" Cristian demanded, anger beginning to surge. It wasn't a question; it was a threat.
Near remained impassive. "I wear it because it reminds me of where I come from. And it reminds me of my guardian." The word "guardian" was pronounced with absolute neutrality, like a mathematical fact.
Cristian laughed—a bitter, sarcastic sound. "Guardian? To me, it looks like my family name."
"It is not a name," Near said, his expression unchanged. "It is an observation."
Cristian was left speechless. Near spoke with such cold logic that it was clear he wasn't lying. This boy wasn't a usurper; he was a mystery. A ghost from his father's past that he knew nothing about. "You are... his adopted son?" he murmured, more to himself than to Near.
Near nodded. "I am sorry if I startled you," he whispered. "But my love for you is stronger than any fear. My love for you is a tangible entity that keeps me alive."
Near led him toward a nearby garden area. The air was thick with unexpressed emotion. The two sat on a wooden bench. "My father left me," Near murmured, his voice a whisper of pain. "But I never blamed him. I understood. I understood that he had to leave. He had to find his way. And I... I waited for him."
Cristian ran back to his car, his heart racing wildly. He couldn't believe what he had just discovered. Without wasting a second, he dialed Martina's number. "Mom," he said, his voice cracking with tension, "I saw something incredible. I saw Juglian's ghost."
Martina answered, her voice calm and composed. "What are you saying, Cristian?"
"I saw a boy. He has his crest. He told me he's his son. Adopted."
On the other end of the line, Martina fell silent. The thought of that boy and the tattoo took her back ten years, to when Juglian first began donating massive sums of money to orphanages across Europe. At the time, she thought it was just an act of charity—a way to clean up his image. But now, with this news, everything changed.
"Adopted son?" she murmured, more to herself than to Cristian. Her sharp, calculating mind began to connect the dots. The donated money, his sudden trip to England, his profound grief after that brief period. Juglian wasn't just giving money; he was investing in a future he had shattered. "Cristian," she said to her son, her voice now sharp as ice. "Get ready. We need to go to England. I need to understand everything."