The memory did not arrive gently, for it tore itself free from the depths of Alexander's mind with a violence that felt far too familiar, and the night around him seemed to fracture briefly as rain-soaked streets blurred into something older, something heavier, something that still carried the scent of polished marble and expensive silence.
Mexico.
Years ago.
Before control.
Before masks.
Before he learned how to hide what hurt.
The De Luca mansion stood vast beneath the evening sun of that forgotten time, its white stone walls glowing faintly gold while shadows stretched long across the courtyard, and young Alexander lingered near the arched corridor with one hand tucked into his pocket while his gaze remained fixed ahead with a quiet intensity that never belonged to children.
Inside the courtyard—
Alessandro stood surrounded.
Praised.
Chosen.
Always chosen.
