"Tryson is the father of the child?" Alex's voice wavered with disbelief, his brows furrowing as the weight of the revelation settled in.
But then, at that very moment, Arthur's lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. A sinister glint flickered in his eyes—he could feel it, an unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Deep down, Alex must have felt a twisted sense of satisfaction.
After all, Tryson was his son, his blood, the rightful heir to carry on his legacy. It was only fitting that he would solidify his place in the dynasty, securing his grip over their empire.
Especially the one bound by blood, loyalty, and ruthlessness—the Mafia lineage.
The very throne that had driven both Tryson and Arthur into years of relentless rivalry, each clawing their way toward power.
A shadow darkened Alex's face, his lips pressing into a firm line before curling into a deep frown.
