He let out an embarrassingly unmanly squeak, practically jumping in surprise.
Rocco found himself face-to-face with a pair of piercing amethyst eyes.
Sylas was staring down at him with such intensity that Rocco's gaze darted nervously around, unable to hold the contact for long.
Scary. Too scary. I can't look him in the eyes. Help…
"H-has something happened, Brother?"
Rocco's words came out jittery, his nerves painfully obvious.
Sylas's gaze lingered for another moment before he finally looked away and muttering something under his breath.
"…Precocious brat."
"Wha—!!"
Precocious brat?!
The words hit Rocco like a slap to the face.
Forgetting for a moment that this was Sylas—the stoic, protagonist-turned-antagonist—he puffed up indignantly, hopping in place and sputtering in protest.
"What do you mean, precocious?! That's my line!"
In his frustration, Rocco began lightly thumping Sylas on the chest with his fists.
It was only after a few seconds of this impromptu tantrum that he realized what he was doing.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
He had just hit Sylas.
Rocco opened his eyes wide with panic.
He slowly looked up at him.
His tears threatening to spill over as he braced for Sylas's wrath.
But to Rocco's surprise, Sylas wasn't angry.
He wasn't wearing his usual scowl or the cold, emotionless mask he often donned.
Instead, Sylas's face was marked by something unusual—an expression of confusion, as if he couldn't quite make sense of what had just happened.
"…What are you?" Sylas muttered at last, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"That's should be my line!" Rocco shot back, puffing out his cheeks in defiance.
...
Sylas Di Malvento.
The eldest son of the Di Malvento family—one of the two ruling families of the underworld—and the merciless, cold-hearted heir.
Born with silvery hair and amethyst eyes, Sylas had been an expressionless, reserved child since early childhood.
Perhaps it was the result of growing up under the shadow of his fearsome father… or losing the only person who might have taught him warmth—his mother—far too early in life.
In any case, Sylas Di Malvento was a cold, prematurely mature child.
He was the kind of person who would, later on, assassinate his own younger brother without hesitation.
Even if that brother had been useless and selfish, they were still blood relatives.
But that was simply who Sylas Di Malvento was.
Because he was that sort of person, no one expected him to behave unpredictably or act in ways that defied understanding.
And yet… what on earth is this situation?
...
"Mmm…"
Rocco's limbs dangled limply in the air, swinging slightly.
Maybe Sylas was annoyed that his useless little brother had dared to punch him.
Or maybe there was another reason entirely.
Whatever the case, Sylas had been holding Rocco up by the scruff of his neck like a cat—for several minutes now—without saying a single word.
Sylas stared down at Rocco intently, gripping him with the same casual roughness one might use when picking up a stray animal.
What does this kid even want? Rocco wondered, growing increasingly perplexed with each passing second.
"What do we do, Ragar? Master's being targeted. It's like a cat caught in the sights of a wolf."
"This is no time for idle chatter! Ready yourself—quickly! We must save Master!"
Behind him, Rocco's two retainers were whispering frantically, sweat practically dripping down their faces.
I can hear you perfectly, Rocco thought dryly. Which means Sylas can hear you too, you know?
With a long, tired sigh, Rocco inhaled sharply to steel himself.
After all, he was the master of these two.
In other words, he was their protector.
And if that was the case, then Rocco had no choice but to step up and protect them properly.
...Come to think of it, it seemed like Ragar had finally returned to his usual calm demeanor.
It was as though his drunkenness had worn off—not that Rocco remembered Ragar drinking at all today.
Well, whatever.
"U-Um… Brother, did I… do something wrong? I'll apologize, so please, please forgive me…"
"…Forgive you?"
"Eeeek! No, never mind! I'm sorry for saying such arrogant things when I'm just a scrawny little runt!"
Rocco clasped his hands together, wringing them pathetically as he forced a shaky, ingratiating smile.
This must be what groveling truly looks like, he thought, feeling a pang of humiliation at his own spinelessness.
Sylas's low voice rumbled in response, and Rocco froze on the spot.
Scary, so scary—please stop…
"…Is that an act too?"
Sylas muttered as he stared down at Rocco, who was now practically crying a waterfall of tears.
"Huh? What was that?" Rocco tilted his head curiously, having only caught his low murmur.
However, Sylas didn't repeat himself.
Does he mean, 'Don't make me say it twice, you idiot'? Rocco thought, deflating with a defeated sigh.
By now, several minutes had passed since Sylas had unceremoniously hoisted Rocco into the air.
He has to put me down soon, Rocco thought. Mother will show up any moment now…
And yet, Sylas showed no intention of letting him go.
Rocco could feel himself reaching his limit—not only from being lifted like a ragdoll but also from the increasingly one-sided conversation.
Sylas's curt, unfriendly replies made it clear that they weren't exactly seeing eye to eye.
Talking to someone this terse and unsociable is exhausting…
And so, Rocco decided to muster his courage one more time.
"Um… B-Brother… could you please put me dow—"
"Huh?"
"Eeep! P-Please! Put me down!"
At this point, with tears streaming down on his face, Rocco hardly looked like the child of a mafia family.
He was sure that anyone watching would consider him the epitome of cowardice.
It was enough to make him ashamed of himself—though he was already crying, so the point was moot.
Rocco pouted miserably, his mouth forming a wobbly line as tears dripped steadily down his cheeks.
Sylas, who had been watching him intently, suddenly scowled in irritation and muttered,
"…If I let go, you'll just go frolic with that beast over there again."