"I hadn't planned on saying anything, but..." the brunette continued proudly.
"Have you gone crazy? Are you fearless or just stupid?" the mafia hissed in a way that only he could hear. "Did you think about your friend? I can kill him, you know. Why do you need these troubles? And what about his troubles?"
"Deimi, stop scaring him," Michael jeered. "So, what kind of person is he?"
"But, damn it... Julian," Grace exclaimed to his sister, but fell silent as their father entered the room.
"Julian? What do I hear?" Mr. Mort took off his coat and placed it on the edge of a chair. "Who is he? Where is he from? Tell me. Am I not too late?"
"No, they were just getting ready to tell us," the brunette clapped her hands, inviting her father to sit next to her. Deimi looked grim; she took a step toward her father and spoke.
"He's my new target. Why are you so interested in his fate? It seems we signed a non-interference agreement in my work."
"How dare you," Grace boiled, but his sister stopped him with a wave of her hand.
"Don't intimidate him, Demi," Michael smirked. "So, who is he, in fact?"
"For you, he's just a casual friend. But for me, he's a target," the girl calmly stated. "And you, don't interfere in my work. My mark is on him," she lied, then went to her room.
"What's gotten into her?" Danny exclaimed. "And where is she going? We just asked them to tell us something."
"The guy they were talking about, your friend, right?" their father asked, rubbing his hands together.
"Yes, but..." Grace began.
"You know what to do," Mr. Mort turned his back to him.
"But what about the agreement?"
"They are just pieces of paper and signatures," their father said. Mort fell silent. He was concerned about something else. Later, he spoke.
"I'm sorry, but I won't follow your orders. My sister is right. Why do you care about this work? You have no right to meddle in the affairs of the Junior Mafia, as you could face serious consequences," the father turned and looked surprised at his son. Danny from the side muttered softly. Grey's cold and composed face could match the professional indifference of the mafia. He often used formality when he intended to oppose, no matter what it cost.
"Don't understand?"
"I won't forever cover your back, Dad. You need to respect the wishes of others. In our case, Deimi's wishes," Grace spoke shamelessly, looking directly into Mr. Mort's eyes. "I've said all I had to. Now, if you please, I'll leave."
The young man turned and left, just like his sister. They had something in common. Be it the cold expression on their faces or the sharp phrases that cut their father's heart open until it bled. It wasn't clear.
"What's gotten into them?!" Danny exclaimed.
"Well, that's interesting. I've never seen Deimi and Grace conspire like this," Michael said with a hint of madness in his eyes.
"What's wrong with them? How could they? How could he say that to me?" Mr. Mort was furious. "And I could just raise my hand, and their friend would be no more."
"Dad, it's not a good idea," Danny said seriously. "If people lose someone dear to them, they might turn against you. You should understand that."
"Are you saying I should fear my own daughter?" The man was outraged.
"You should, Dad," Wendy confirmed. "This time, you're at fault. You gave her too much power. She has her own army that can match even the strongest mafia. That's what she was aiming for."
"And on top of that, you give her control over your people. Do you think they won't harm you if she tells them to? And considering the connections with the children of the mafia, whose parents are like you, it's a disaster," Michael chimed in. "They respect her, know her, and welcome her with joy."
"Oh, how respectfully you spoke," Danny laughed. He perked up and waved his hand. "Oh, they'll get angry and stop. Who wants a mini-cake in a cup?" They remained silent. "Okay, suit yourselves. If anyone's interested, join in. I'm going to be in the kitchen."
"I... I didn't notice," Mr. Mort mumbled.
"Psychology teaches us not even to trust our own blood," the older one yawned."Oh, what are you saying? After all, they're just kids," Wendy waved her hand dismissively.
"And who are you then? An underdeveloped adult?" Michael raised his eyebrows.
"What's that got to do with it?" the brunette snapped. But they didn't hear her anymore, as the brunette directed his gaze to his laptop. "Dad, we need to talk."
"About what? About your waiter. Oh no, I need to think. Not today. And not now," Mr. Mort muttered. His face was alienated, as if he wasn't really there. But what made him think? Could the mafiosa have scared him? Is he afraid of his own daughter?