The White Family[1]

A mafia consigliere rose from the head chair. His immaculate suit reflected the hall's light as he smiled with false cordiality. 

"May I have everyone's attention. I'd like to introduce my nephews and their mother," he announced, voice dripping with pride and condescension, as if my status were his achievement. 

He began with me: 

"This is Celestia Black, founder of Black Enterprises." 

Then he gestured to Nayara: 

"This is Nayara Black White, her firstborn. The 'White' surname was added merely to assert dominance." 

When his eyes turned to Nael, there was a palpable hesitation. Before the consigliere could continue, Nael interjected. His voice cut the air with surgical precision: 

"Nael Supremium." 

The hall held its breath. Nael, with his impeccable posture and hypnotic eyes, radiated authority like a living force. Without glancing back, he declared: 

"Excuse me." 

The consigliere tried reclaiming control, raising his voice slightly: 

"We're not finished yet—".

"*I* have," Nael replied, his icy tone freezing the room.

Nayara shot me a silent look of understanding before stepping away. 

"I won't stay here," she murmured, her eyes betraying resolve and sorrow. 

Before she could leave, I gripped her arm. 

"Wait," I said softly but firmly. 

"Let him have his space. You don't want to make this worse," I added, my voice laced with quiet concern and the inevitable weight of our legacy. 

I approached the consigliere, my steps slow, ensuring only he heard my words: 

"You have no idea what you're dealing with. Don't provoke them. Don't test their limits. They grew up without your influence—independent in ways you'll never control." 

He arched a brow arrogantly, voice reckless: 

"I'm not afraid of brats." 

I let out a low, humorless laugh. 

"That's the problem. They aren't brats. They're weapons. And you don't want to see those weapons misfire." 

Silence fell as his eyes avoided mine. I stepped back, carrying the burden of my warning. My children were mine, but they were also something greater—a potential so vast even I feared fully awakening it. 

Finally, I broke the silence with steeled resolve: 

"It's time to meet our host." 

"Host?" Nayara Muttered, disbelief fingering her voice. 

"Our father…" 

The word made me shudder involuntarily, but I masked it with a serene smile. 

Nael remained impassive, though his eyes glinted with something indecipherable. 

Together, we crossed the threshold, ready to face ghosts of the past and monsters of the present, knowing each step plunged us deeper into a game no outsider could control. 

---

The tension was almost tangible. Celestia stood unshaken, flawless in her poise, observing her two children. Her calm yet curious eyes scanned every detail. 

"Nervous to meet your father?" she asked, her voice low and measured, like testing treacherous waters. 

Nayara answered first, chin lifted in veiled defiance. Her crystalline blue eyes sparkled with irritation. 

"No." The reply was sharp, a blade's strike. 

Celestia arched a brow, but before she could retort, Nayara pressed: 

"And you? Aren't *you*?" 

Nayara's tone was direct, provocative, challenging Celestia's authority like a daring child. Yet the continent's most powerful woman merely offered an enigmatic smile, betraying no vulnerability. 

Meanwhile, Nael stayed silent, observing the exchange with his hypnotic eyes. Chaotic, multicolored irises clashed with his calculated frost. His posture remained erect, every gesture deliberate—a strategist poised to strike or defend. 

Suddenly, our guide interrupted curtly: 

"Follow me." 

The corridor ahead reeked of opulence and decay. Walls paneled in dark wood, crystal chandeliers casting golden reflections on pristine marble, and shadows dancing in corners created an atmosphere where luxury coexisted with threat. 

Celestia, finally breaking her silence, walked beside Nayara and spoke softly, almost reassuringly: 

"No need to worry. Things will be fine. I promise." 

Nayara turned to her mother. Her eyes hardened, gaze mixing discomfort and defiance. Celestia offering comfort was rare—and unsettling. Without responding, Nayara pursed her lips and looked away, thoughts grinding like unoiled gears. 

The corridor pulsed with the weight of secrets and authority. Silence stretched, thick with ambiguity, as footsteps echoed slowly, heralding that soon we'd confront not just the night's host, but phantoms of the past and the present's uncertain promises. 

Nael walked a few steps ahead, attuned to every nuance between Nayara and Celestia. Without words, he sensed their shifted dynamic. His relaxed posture masked latent tension, every muscle primed for inevitable conflict. He knew tonight was different—facing his father, however reluctantly acknowledged, would never be trivial. Unlike Nayara, who battled nerves, Nael remained detached, his chill a perfect shield forged since childhood. 

Nayara, however, couldn't ignore the night's gravity. Celestia's promise—"things will be fine"—echoed, perhaps mere smoke and mirrors. As she walked, she clenched her fists slightly, gloved fingers finding comfort in familiar black leather. Being a weapon molded by the Queen meant no weakness, yet this gnawing unease was hard to quell. 

"Don't trust promises so much, Mother," Nayara said, her bitter tone slicing the silence, surprising even herself. 

Celestia shot her a fleeting glance, knowing words were futile here. Ahead, Nael chuckled faintly, almost inaudibly, making Nayara grit her teeth in disdain. 

Our guide halted abruptly before towering double doors adorned with intricate battle carvings. He turned to us, expression stern, and asked firmly: 

"Are you ready?" 

---

Nael stepped forward. His aura, dense and almost oppressive, seemed to warp the air around him. Without uttering a word, he fixed his eyes—those aurora borealis orbs holding secrets and contained emotions—on the man before him. A gaze that spoke louder than a thousand declarations. 

Nayara hesitated for a moment. Then, she lifted her chin and adjusted her dress with the resolve of one preparing for battle. Celestia, meanwhile, maintained her impenetrable stare, steady and authoritative. 

With a solemn gesture, the guide swung the doors open. The three were swallowed by the blinding light of the hall ahead, ready to confront the ghosts of the past and the trials the present had in store. 

--- 

The White mansion's main hall was a tableau of opulence and ancestral weight. 

Walls draped in ancient tapestries and crystal chandeliers hanging from a vaulted ceiling created an atmosphere where sophistication and oppression intertwined. Every footstep echoed the memory of generations who'd ruled there. 

As we entered, our gazes met a group of five. Four men and a woman, united by rigid postures and resolute stares. 

At the center stood a man over 6'4", with severe features and a piercing gaze that radiated authority. His icy demeanor judged our every move, as if his presence alone tipped the scales of our fate. 

To his right sat a woman in her fifties, her mature beauty refined by silence. Her spine defied gravity and time. Behind her stood a man nearing sixty, silver-haired and stone-faced, his unspoken words louder than any speech. 

--- 

"Sit," commanded the eldest man, his gravelly voice shattering the silence like a decree. 

We moved toward the dark leather armchairs arranged before the family. Nael, ever mindful of protocol, yielded the central seat to our matriarch. He sat to the left, posture rigid, hands resting on his knees as if perpetually alert. 

Nayara took the rightmost chair, crossing her legs and casting calculated glances at each person present. 

Silence descended, thick and uncomfortable, as the ensuing minutes stretched into eternity. Every stare, every gesture, was a dissection—a search for weaknesses to fracture the charged stillness. 

The room breathed tension; even the chandeliers' glow seemed dimmed by the weight of secrets and formality. 

"So…" one man began, his wavering voice attempting to breach the silence, but the words died midair, as if the room itself rejected the disruption. 

Celestia remained impassive, eyes locked on the group's leader, while Nael maintained his habitual detachment—cold and analytical. 

Nayara, her gaze a blend of defiance and weariness, crossed her arms as if shielding something unexposed. 

Between restrained glances and gestures, the silence spoke volumes. The game was afoot, and each passing second revealed that here, power and secrets intertwined as intricately as the carvings on the double doors we'd crossed. 

--- 

"So… these are my nephews?" asked a man beside the eldest, his tone casual yet laced with subtle unease. 

Celestia smiled, controlled, trying to diffuse the tension. 

"Yes. They are." 

At that moment, the room's gravity became undeniable. People forged in survival's hellscape, where actions outweighed words. Yet Celestia needed to bridge these divides, however tenuously. 

"They're unique! I'm sure boys fall at *her* feet, and *he*… bet he inherited my luck with women!" exclaimed the man, Ethan, laughing boisterously as if humor could thaw the frost. 

"Always the jester, Ethan," retorted a woman beside him, rolling her eyes with a faint smile. 

Then the eldest woman, seated nearby, finally spoke. Her voice was sweet yet firm, tempered by decades: 

"I've long wanted to meet my grandchildren. Look how they've grown… And they've taken nothing from their father." 

Nael watched intently, his aurora borealis eyes dissecting every gesture, every inflection. He deciphered emotions with clinical precision—and here, he noted something unexpected: Rose's joy was genuine. No pretense, no hidden agendas. 

Nayara, suspicion sharpening her curiosity, interrupted: 

"And you are…?" 

The woman smiled enigmatically. 

"I'm your grandmother, Rose. The man behind me is your grandfather's brother, John. This beside me is Amara, your father's youngest sister. And *that* one…" She pointed to the imposing man at the center, her eyes glinting challengingly. "Well, take a guess." 

Nayara didn't hesitate. 

"He's our father." Her voice was razor-edged, permitting no jest. 

A leaden silence followed, as if the air had frozen. 

Rose, her smile amused yet tinged with bitterness, countered: 

"No, he isn't. But I can't say the same for… someone else." Her gaze disarmed the room. 

Nayara pressed, frost creeping into her tone: 

"Then… which of these three *is* My father?" 

Ethan tried to laugh nervously, but the sound withered under Nael's glacial aura. 

"None of them are your father," Rose stated, her firmness born of experience. 

Nael, silent until now, shattered the ice: 

"Then where *is* our father?" His deep, unyielding voice cleaved the air, and for a breathless moment, no one dared answer. 

Tension peaked, palpable and suffocating, as mystery thickened—secrets and regrets swirling like shadows refusing to dissipate. 

---