Night slowly descended on Duvall Island, cloaking the city in a soft fog and the dim glow of yellow lanterns. Narrow alleys grew darker, and the scent of damp earth mixed with cigar smoke filled the air. Aboard the Grand Fortuna, the crew was enjoying a simple dinner: vegetable soup, smoked meat, and toasted wheat bread.
Nara sat cross-legged, spooning soup slowly, while Ravi kept helping himself to more. Juno studied the harbor map with sharp eyes, and Bastien, as usual, ate while staying alert to his surroundings.
"No strange incidents, right?" Bastien asked without looking directly at anyone, his voice quiet.
"All normal," Juno replied quickly. "But this place feels too... sterile. Like every corner has been scrubbed clean of life."
Nara added, "No children, no vagrants, no laughter... too quiet for a city this crowded."
Arthur said nothing. Since returning from the port, his expression had changed. Something was bothering him—something he couldn't yet put into words.
After dinner was done and the dishes were cleared, Arthur stood up. "I'm heading out for a bit. Just for a walk."
Bastien raised an eyebrow. "Alone?"
Arthur nodded. "I need some fresh air. I won't go far."
Bastien watched him for a moment before nodding. "If anything happens... use the mini den-den mushi Juno gave you."
Arthur walked down the increasingly dark streets. His footsteps blended with the stillness of the night. He followed his instincts—a strange pull leading him to a narrow alley behind an antique shop.
That's when eight men in black suits emerged from the shadows. Their steps were silent, their posture firm, and a thorned rose brooch was pinned to each of their chests.
Arthur stopped immediately and straightened, ready to fight. "Don't come near me," he said coldly.
The men didn't attack. Instead, they bowed in unison. "Young Master Morenzo," they said together.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I don't know who you are, but if this is some kind of joke—"
"This is no joke," came a deep, aged voice from behind.
An elderly man stepped forward. His hair was silver-white, his face wrinkled but dignified. His gaze was sharp, though clouded with age.
"Arthur… or should I say: Arthur Morenzo."
Arthur took a step back. "You've got the wrong person."
"No," the old man smiled thinly. "My name is Enzo. I was once the underboss of your father's family, Don Michael Morenzo."
Arthur shook his head slowly. "You're lying. My father was nobody. My mom... she never said anything."
"Because she wanted to keep you safe," Enzo said calmly. "She wasn't a street woman, Arthur. Your mother was the most ruthless consigliere we ever had."
"Enough!" Arthur snapped, his voice rising. "You don't know anything about my mom!"
"I know everything," Enzo replied, his tone calm but piercing. "Her name was Celia, wasn't it? Her eyes always alert. Her left hand trembled whenever she held a glass, because of poison scarring from the Barzini family. She ran the eastern port smuggling operations for two years before she disappeared. She didn't abandon your father. She saved you."
Arthur was stunned, though suspicion still lingered in his eyes. "That could all be a made-up story."
Enzo sighed. "If you think we're lying, then why are we bowing to you now?"
Arthur clenched his jaw. He looked at the men's faces one by one. There was loyalty in their eyes. Sadness. Hope. He hated that feeling—hated that a part of him was starting... to believe.
"If all of that's true," Arthur said quietly, his gaze sharp on Enzo, "why now? Why not before?"
Enzo exhaled, his voice heavy but calm. "Because we never truly left, Young Master."
Arthur frowned.
"Since your mother died, we've always been nearby. In the shadows. Watching, protecting," Enzo continued. "Every hunter who caught wind of Morenzo blood—we silenced them. Quietly. Without trace. Even before you knew they existed."
Another old man added, "We took care of those who stalked your home, who followed you to the market. You never knew, because that was the point. So no one would suspect you were a Morenzo heir. For as long as possible."
Arthur stared at them, still struggling to believe their words, yet also unable to ignore the sincerity in every sentence.
Enzo went on, "We knew one day you would have to learn who you really are. But we also knew that learning too soon could destroy you—physically... or mentally."
"So when did you decide to back off?" Arthur asked, his voice barely steady.
"When you became Gerald Lazhar's student," Enzo answered. "Then we knew you were under the protection of someone far stronger than any of us. We withdrew quietly, just watching from afar. But we never stopped guarding you. We just... gave you space to grow on your own."
Silence fell.
"We are not shadows of the past demanding a claim," Enzo said gently. "We are remnants who live to make sure the Morenzo legacy does not die out... and to make sure you have the choice to accept or reject it, when the time comes."
Arthur was silent for a long while. His gaze was blank, staring past them into the night. Inside, a storm raged: anger, confusion, betrayal... and somehow, a trace of sorrow.
"And now you think the time has come?" he muttered at last.
Enzo looked him in the eye. "We didn't choose the timing, Young Master. The world forced it."
"And after that?" Arthur asked bitterly. "You expect me to lead you? To take revenge? Go to war? Become a mafia boss?"
Enzo smiled sadly. "We don't expect that much. We only want you to know who you are... and what you've inherited."
Arthur looked down. His head buzzed with voices. Faint memories of his mother. Drops of blood. Midnight screams. All becoming puzzle pieces slowly falling into place.
"I still don't fully believe it," he finally said. "But I'll listen... until the end."
Enzo bowed deeply. "That is enough, Young Master."
Meanwhile, aboard the Freebone, Bastien stood on deck. The night wind blew cold, and the sky over Duvall was overcast, as if holding something back.
"Arthur..." he murmured. "What did you find out there?"