The wind carried the scent of wet soil and rosemary through the garden behind the estate—the only place in the Colombo mansion that felt like it belonged to Gabriele.

Kneeling beside a patch of lavender and wild basil, Gabriele Colombo, fourteen, studied the roots of a plant he'd been nursing back to life. His fingers were smudged with earth, his notebook open on a nearby bench—filled with sketches and botanical notes, pressed petals cradled between its pages.

This was his world. Quiet. Green. Growing.

"Gabriele! Vieni subito!" (Come here, now!)

The bark of his father's voice cut through the peace like a bullet. He froze, dirt falling from his fingers. His father never asked. He summoned.

Don Vincenzo Colombo, dressed in dark wool and shadowed by two of his brothers, loomed at the garden's edge like a god of war. A gleaming silver cufflink caught the sun—etched with the family crest: a lion, a crown, and a dagger through the heart.

"You're out here playing giardiniere?" (gardener)

Gabriele stood slowly, brushing his knees. "I was just—"

"You are a Colombo," Vincenzo interrupted, walking forward with the grace of a predator. "You were not born to play with flowers. Your hands are meant to hold power. Not petals."

"But I don't want this life, Papà," Gabriele said, voice shaking. "I want to study... plants. Science. I want to go to university. Please."

Vincenzo's jaw clenched. Then, with a cruel softness, he leaned down to eye level.

"La tua volontà non conta." (Your will doesn't matter.) "You are my son. ( primo figlio.) The firstborn. And you will take your place. Or you will die trying."

Later that night, Gabriele knocked softly on the door to the sitting room where his mother, Isabella, reclined like a broken statue — dressed in silk, a wine glass in her hand, her skin patterned with fresh bruises and fading ones.

"Mamma," he said, kneeling beside her. "Please. Convince Papà. I don't want to be like him."

Isabella did not meet his eyes. Her voice came low and lifeless.

"Siamo tutti prigionieri, amore mio." (We are all prisoners, my love.) "We do not get to choose. You are his son. His heir. You belong to this house."

"But he hurts you," Gabriele whispered. "I hear what he does. Every night. And he brings... other women. He doesn't even care."

"He doesn't have to care," she said. "He is Don Colombo."

Tears burned behind Gabriele's eyes, but he said nothing more. He understood now: she had already died long ago. Only her body remained in this prison of velvet and violence.

Later at night,

The dungeon was colder than he imagined. Stone walls wept with moisture. The light above flickered, and chains clinked with every breath. In the center of the room, a man knelt — gagged, bloodied, and trembling. Vincenzo stood beside him, cleaning the barrel of a pistol with a handkerchief.

"Look at him," he told Gabriele. "He stole from us. Lied. Tried to run." "This is what weakness looks like."

He aimed and fired. The sound cracked the air like thunder. The man slumped forward, lifeless. Before Gabriele could flinch, his father turned to him and extended the pistol.

"Ora tocca a te." (Now it's your turn.)

Gabriele's hands trembled as he took the weapon.

"Papà... please."

Vincenzo's eyes hardened. "There is no room for cowards in this family. Solo i forti governano." (Only the strong rule.)

Uncle Enzo sneered. "He thinks he's special. Maybe he wants to end up like the corpse."

Massimo chuckled. "Or maybe we bring the girls down here, huh? See how weak he stays."

Gabriele's grip tightened on the gun. Tears stung his eyes. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out his thoughts. He turned to the second prisoner now dragged into the room — younger, barely a man, whimpering as he was forced to his knees.

Gabriele aimed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "Mi dispiace."

He fired.

The boy collapsed. The silence that followed was endless. Applause rang from the shadows. Hands clapped his shoulders. His brother laughed. His uncle shouted "Bravo!"

But Gabriele didn't feel proud. He felt... nothing.

That night, standing before the mirror in his bedroom, he stared at the boy looking back at him. His hands still smelled of gunpowder. The weight of the pistol still haunted his palm. The blood was gone from his shirt, but not from his mind.

Gone was the boy who dreamt of gardens — of seeds and sunlight, of earth beneath his nails and the peace that came with creation. Once, he'd believed life could grow even in ruins. He'd sketched flowers in the margins of his notebooks, pressed petals between pages as if he could trap beauty before it vanished.

But beauty doesn't survive in a house built on blood.

One by one, his dreams withered — torn out by hands that taught him the only thing that bloomed in their world was power. His father made sure of it. Every lesson, every punishment, every drop of spilled blood carved the softness out of him, leaving behind something colder. Harder. The child who once whispered to seedlings was buried beneath the weight of a name.

Now, there were no books. No flowers. No fragile green hopes. Only il figlio del Diavolo — the Devil's son.

A Colombo....And soon, Don Gabriele Colombo would rise.

Because in this house, there was no room for dreams. Only blood......And the man who dared to dream became the monster the world now feared.