The second turning point came on the day of his younger brother's birthday party.
Apparently, Sylas's detestable stepmother was scheming to install her biological son—his brother—as the heir.
There was no way his father hadn't noticed such a crude and obvious plan.
Yet, the foolish woman seemed blissfully ignorant, wrongly assuming that her plan was proceeding smoothly.
The truth was that his father was merely letting her play her game and allowing her to dig her own grave.
He had only approved the party to secure a justification for eventually driving her out of the Di Malvento estate.
Sylas couldn't help but think how unfortunate his brother was.
A birthday—a special day meant to celebrate one's existence, once a year.
And yet, his mother had reduced it to a tool for her own ambitions, while his father used it to gain leverage to remove her.
At only six years old, the boy's birthday was already being exploited for the selfish desires of adults.
Perhaps, Sylas thought bitterly, the unluckiest person in the entire Di Malvento estate was none other than his younger brother.
"Young Master, you're really putting in a lot of effort today," Philip remarked suddenly, his voice tinged with curiosity. "It's just a birthday party, you know? Superficial at best. You don't have to dress up so much…"
Sylas standing in front of the mirror and double-checking his own reflection—something he rarely did—scowled at Philip's remark and delivered a punch to his gut.
Ignoring Philip's groan, he turned back to the mirror.
The sight of the fool crouched over in his peripheral vision was somewhat annoying, but kicking him out of the way felt like too much effort, so he left him there.
No stray hairs, no loose buttons.
His outfit was… passable, he supposed.
"Hey, Philip," Sylas said. "Get up. What do you think of my appearance?"
"Guh... my stomach..." Philip groaned before finally standing upright. "Wait, what? Why are you suddenly acting like a narcissist? I mean, you look terrifying as usual. Like a demon mafia boss who makes even crying children fall silent—"
Wham.
Sylas's fist met Philip's gut again.
This useless idiot, he thought.
He doesn't want to looked terrifying in front of his younger brother.
His brief surge of irritation needed to be released, and Philip's stomach was conveniently at hand.
After venting his frustration, Sylas felt a little calmer.
Even so, Philip's earlier comment lingered in his mind.
If his small, timid little brother saw him, would he cry out in terror instead of admiring him?
Would he freeze in place and too scared to even scream?
That wouldn't do.
That wasn't what Sylas wanted.
He didn't want to be feared by his brother.
He… he wanted…
What did he want?
"I'm the fool, aren't I?" Sylas muttered to himself.
Suddenly snapping back to reality, Sylas carelessly tossed the silver hair ornament he had been holding aside.
What had gotten into him?
Why should he care how his despised younger brother saw him?
If anything, the best revenge would be to show through his demeanor that he didn't care at all—not even about the boy's birthday.
…Revenge?
But unlike his stepmother, his brother had done nothing wrong.
"...it's so Irritating," Sylas muttered under his breath.
"Hey, you were in a good mood just a second ago! Now you're hitting me and acting all annoyed—seriously, what wrong with you today?" Philip grumbled while clutching his stomach.
Even as Sylas tried to untangle his inexplicable emotions, he found himself unable to take that final step toward understanding.
Whenever he tried to stoke his resentment, the image of his brother's soft, unguarded smile flitted through his mind, disrupting the effort.
His younger brother would undoubtedly witness the worst of the adults around him today and feel crushed by the weight of their selfish scheming.
A mother exposing her ugly ambitions by using him, a father showing not a shred of genuine love, and a brother directing his hatred toward him.
Surrounded by blood relatives who acted like strangers, the boy might break down in tears, overcome with sadness.
Why?
Why was it that every time Sylas pictured his brother crying, an uncontrollable fury surged within him?
He didn't know.
He couldn't possibly understand.
...
When Sylas saw his brother up close for the first time, he found the boy to be even more striking than he had appeared from afar.
No, striking wasn't an emotional observation—it was a physical one.
His features were well-formed, as one might expect of someone bearing the Di Malvento bloodline.
Accompanied by his two retainer, his brother sat stiffly at the table, hiding his fear and anxiety behind a clumsily maintained neutral expression.
For a 6 year old boy facing such a stifling atmosphere without crying, he was far braver than most children.
Although his slight trembling body was noticeable, Sylas decided to overlook it.
For a member of a mafia family, it was passable behavior.
"You've grown up, Rocco. I'm so glad I finally get to see your face again after so long," his stepmother gushed, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
Rocco, clearly struggling to maintain his composure, responded politely despite his fear.
His stepmother, dressed in her usual garish and tasteless attire, paid no mind to the boy's obvious discomfort as she intruded upon him with unwelcome conversation.
That wretched woman, Sylas thought, clenching his fists. Can't you see he's barely holding himself together? Stop piling more pressure on him. Sit quietly and fan yourself or something.
His urge to rise and strike her was strong, but he forced it down, choosing to remain impassive.
When Rocco replied with a shy smile, "I'm happy too," Sylas found the expression so endearing that, just this once, he decided to let the woman's behavior slide.
You should thank his smile for sparing you this time, you awful woman, Sylas thought bitterly as the oppressive meal finally began.
Sylas's attention lingered on Rocco as the boy timidly picked at his food with clumsy hands.