Chapter 211: "The Whole Fucking Family Is Insane"

Forced into a situation he had neither requested nor remotely consented to, Jordan naturally refused to surrender without a fight.

"Jeremiah Castellano!" he growled, digging his heels stubbornly into the plush carpet. "If you introduce me to your parents as your fucking boyfriend, I swear to God—"

Jeremiah merely tightened his grip and continued dragging Jordan forward as though he hadn’t spoken.

"Do try to smile," he advised brightly. "First impressions are terribly important."

Aren, meanwhile, stumbled once before quickly recovering her balance.

Unlike Jordan, however, she offered considerably less resistance. Her attention had already settled on something else entirely — specifically, the couple they were heading straight toward.

The closer they came, the more intently Aren studied the Don and Donna of House Castellano.

’Oh?’

Her gaze moved from Claudio to Maria, then briefly toward Jeremiah.

’...Neither of them has his eye color.’

Claudio Castellano’s hair was the same natural light blond as his son’s, and several of Jeremiah’s features could undoubtedly be traced back to him.

Claudio’s eyes, however, were a muted light blue.

Maria Castellano’s, meanwhile, were a rich, deep brown.

Moreover, the longer Aren studied the individual lines of the Donna’s face — her eyes, nose, mouth, and bone structure — the more apparent it became that Jeremiah shared surprisingly few obvious features with his mother.

Aren’s gaze drifted once more toward the cheerful Jeremiah still dragging her forward, lingering for a moment on his striking teal eyes.

’What a peculiar eye color.’

’Perhaps it’s some uncommon genetic variation.’

Whatever differences existed in their appearances, however, they clearly had no bearing whatsoever on the bond between mother and son.

The instant Jeremiah reached his parents, he abandoned both Aren and Jordan without warning and practically flew into his mother’s waiting arms.

"Mamma! Oh, look at you! You don’t look as though you’ve ever given birth to me at all!"

He buried himself against his mother, utterly unconcerned by the number of people in the reception hall watching them.

"If I were merely some young gentleman and not your son," he exclaimed dreamily, "I swear I’d fall in love with you the moment you walked through those doors!"

Maria Castellano displayed just as little concern for public decorum as her son. She cupped his face and kissed his cheek, ruffling his carefully styled hair as though he were still six years old rather than twenty-six.

"Oh, look at my sweet boy. Always knowing exactly what to say to make your mamma happy, don’t you?"

Her eyes sparkled with teasing amusement.

"But perhaps you should save some of those sweet words, hm? Your papà might become jealous."

Jeremiah looked perfectly content to bask in her affection indefinitely.

Then, as though suddenly remembering that he’d been born with two parents rather than one, he lifted his head and turned toward Claudio.

"Oh, of course not! I could never compete with Papà. Papà is the king of this entire kingdom! Naturally, only he could deserve a queen as magnificent as you."

Claudio laughed softly, looking nothing but pleased as he watched his wife and son lavish affection on one another.

"Ah, look at this slick little brat. So you still remember you’ve got a papà, huh?"

His eyes swept over Jeremiah with unmistakable pride.

"The way you’ve been spinning around this place playing superstar lately, I thought you’d decided you were ready to steal my chair and rule the family empire yourself!"

Jeremiah recoiled theatrically, waving both hands in immediate denial.

"Oh, no, no, Papà! How could I possibly be ready to replace the magnificent Don Claudio?"

Then he swept one arm toward the extravagant reception hall with tremendous pride.

"Though in your absence... I may have taken the liberty of making a few tiny improvements to our humble little den. Have a look, Mamma, Papà! What do you think of the little changes I’ve made?"

The Don and Donna followed his gesture, taking in the lavish décor surrounding them. Before long, they exchanged amused looks and turned back to their son.

"You spent an enormous amount of money again, didn’t you?" Maria asked knowingly. "But Mamma can’t complain. Everything you touch somehow turns magnificent."

Her gaze traveled appreciatively over the paintings lining the reception hall.

"And God! Look at those gorgeous paintings! I love them!"

Even Claudio nodded in approval.

He stepped slightly closer to one enormous canvas, studying it with curious interest.

"You’ve inherited your papà’s taste, haven’t you?" he said with satisfaction. "Look at these beauties. Who painted them? I don’t see any plaques."

"Oh, some of Borgata’s most prolific artists, Papà," Jeremiah replied smoothly. "Unfortunately, they’ve all requested anonymity. Naturally, I must respect the delicate artistic vision of such talented people."

Claudio clicked his tongue.

"What a shame you never pursued fine arts yourself, son. With taste like yours, you might’ve created works every bit as impressive as these."

Jeremiah reacted as though his father had personally insulted him.

"Papà! Pursue fine arts? If I’d become a painter, who would be making mountains of money for you and our House?" His eyes glittered mischievously. "Besides... weren’t you the one who told me when I was younger that becoming a painter was exclusively reserved for losers?"

Claudio tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"Well... I did say that, didn’t I?"

A moment later, he suddenly erupted into booming laughter.

"Forget it! You’re much better suited to being my heir!"

A few steps away from the happy family reunion, Aren and Jordan stood side by side in complete silence.

Apparently, the Jeremiah Castellano they knew and the Jeremiah Castellano in front of his parents were entirely different creatures. On top of that, he seemed to have completely forgotten why he’d dragged Aren and Jordan over in the first place.

For several moments, Aren and Jordan felt almost relieved about it...

...until realization suddenly struck Jeremiah.

"Wait a minute!"

Jeremiah spun around at once.

"How terribly rude of me! Mamma, Papà, I need to introduce you properly to my wonderful new friends!"

Jordan stiffened the instant Jeremiah turned toward him. Every instinct urged him to turn around, take Aren with him, and walk away before Jeremiah could make the situation any worse.

Unfortunately, these weren’t merely Jeremiah’s parents. They were the Don and Donna of House Castellano.

Walking away without so much as a proper greeting could easily be interpreted as deliberate disrespect, and Jordan had no intention of creating political friction between two Houses — simply because their son was driving him insane.

So, with visible effort, Jordan remained exactly where he was and inclined his head formally.

"Don Claudio. Donna Maria. It’s a pleasure to see you both tonight. But before Jeremiah says anything else, I should clarify that the situation is not what you may have heard."

Beside him, Aren lowered her head with equal respect.

"Good evening, Don Claudio, Donna Maria. What Jordan said is correct. Our relationship with your son is strictly professional."

They both delivered the clarification with unmistakable sincerity. Unfortunately, Jeremiah’s parents responded by laughing out loud.

"Ah ha ha ha!"

Claudio stepped forward and gave Jordan’s good arm an encouraging pat.

"Come now, young Marchetti! There’s no reason to be shy in front of us! Haven’t you heard? I’m probably one of the most open-minded Dons in Borgata."

Maria, meanwhile, looked every bit as supportive as her husband. She stepped forward and warmly took both of Aren’s hands in her own.

"Oh, look how beautiful you are tonight, Ariana, sweetheart. Claudio is right! In fact, we don’t even mind if you have more boyfriends than the Marchetti heir and our son."

Aren stared at her.

Maria gave Aren a knowing wink.

"Whether you’re with the Sartori Don, the Accardi consigliere, or anyone else, our family will still happily welcome you as our own daughter if you ever decide to marry our baby Jeremiah one day, all right?"

Before Aren could begin processing that astonishing declaration, Jeremiah inserted himself into the hand-holding arrangement.

"You hear that, baby girl?" he cooed, leaning toward Aren. "I already have two older brothers, so they can take care of producing an heir. You don’t need to worry about making babies. Just stay exactly as pretty as you are now, and spend the rest of your life as my parents’ favorite daughter-in-law."

Aren stood between mother and son, her eyes moving slowly from Maria’s cheerful smile to Jeremiah’s equally cheerful one.

’...What exactly is happening now?’

She was reasonably certain she’d only signed a fighter contract with House Castellano. She hadn’t signed up for a marriage contract with a guaranteed exemption from all heir-producing duties.

Jordan, meanwhile, stood beside them in equally profound silence.

Unlike Aren, however, he’d finally reached a life-altering conclusion.

’The whole fucking family is insane.’

In a strange way, it explained everything. Jeremiah hadn’t emerged from nowhere. He was the inevitable product of twenty-six years spent inside this.

Regardless, trying to reason with these people clearly wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Jordan quickly realized that his only remaining option was to rescue himself and Aren from the collective madness — and focus on why they were actually here tonight.

"Ahem."

He cleared his throat.

"Ariana and I appreciate your... support, Don Claudio, Donna Maria. But the event is about to begin. Ariana still has a lot to prepare, so I’d like to excuse us and get her backstage."

Jeremiah gasped, looking genuinely startled by the reminder.

"Right! I’m the master of ceremonies tonight, aren’t I? I need to get ready as well!"

He turned toward his parents, his expression tragic, as though fate itself had decided to tear their family apart.

"Then I suppose we must part so soon, Mamma, Papà! I’ll have an assistant escort you to the VIP section. I promise I’ll wave at you from the cage!"

As if on cue, Claudio instantly seized his son and pulled him into a crushing embrace.

"Go on, my boy! Get ready and make your mamma and papà proud!"

Maria also started dabbing delicately at some invisible tears near the corners of her eyes.

"Of course, sweetheart! We couldn’t possibly be prouder of you. We promise we’ll wave back."

Jordan, meanwhile, looked as though he’d reached his lifetime quota for Castellano family theater. He slipped his good arm around Aren’s shoulders and gently nudged her away.

"Come on, Ariana. We’ve gotta get you ready."

Aren nodded before crouching to gather Biscuit into her arms — and before any Castellano could spot them leaving.

"Let’s go, Biscuit," she said very quietly. "Let’s see what our dressing room looks like."

Biscuit settled comfortably against her, looking just as eager to escape unnoticed as Jordan guided them away. He didn’t even dare let out the enthusiastic yip he usually did.

As the three of them crossed the reception hall, however, Aren’s attention gradually wandered back toward the paintings covering the walls.

Although she’d briefly seen these paintings the first time she’d been here, only now did she have the time and presence of mind to study them properly.

At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the collection beyond its extravagance.

The paintings depicted wildly different subjects and appeared to have been executed in different styles, techniques, and mediums. Any ordinary observer would have assumed they were looking at works produced by numerous artists — with little in common beyond the quality of their craft.

Yet, the longer Aren studied them, the more something began to bother her.

Despite all those obvious differences, there was a peculiar consistency beneath them.

The colors.

Not the palettes themselves — the paintings used vastly different colors — but something subtler in the way those colors had been mixed.

Certain undertones seemed to recur.

Certain shades carried an oddly familiar quality from one canvas to the next.

Almost as though the same hands had mixed them.

Aren narrowed her eyes.

’That’s strange.’

’Mister Castellano claimed these were painted by different artists...’

’...then why do the colors feel like they were mixed by the same hands?’

The thought made her examine the collection more carefully as they continued walking. One painting after another passed through her field of vision until...

...her gaze stopped.

Completely.

Almost hidden in a corner...

There was another painting.

Unlike the elaborate works proudly displayed throughout the reception hall, this one was positioned as though whoever had placed it there didn’t want anyone to see it at all.

A massive vase stood directly in front of it, overflowing with a tall floral arrangement that obscured much of the canvas from view.

Moreover, this painting was different.

So different, in fact, that it was difficult to tell whether it’d been created by the same person as the other paintings.

The canvas was brutally simple.

The background was a stark, almost violently plain white.

Across it ran deep crimson strokes, so dark and dense in places that they resembled drying blood — crossing and colliding without any obvious concern for composition, elegance, or conventional beauty.

It looked as though whoever had painted it had simply attacked the canvas in a moment of overwhelming emotion — and stopped only when there was nothing left inside them to put onto it.

Compared with the polished masterpieces surrounding it, this painting looked absurdly out of place.

Grotesque, even.

Like some ugly, unfinished piece that had somehow slipped into an expensive collection merely to occupy an empty patch of wall.

Nobody stood before it.

Nobody admired it.

Most guests probably couldn’t even see it behind the enormous vase and flowers.

Yet, Aren’s gaze remained fixed on that hidden canvas longer than it had on any of the masterpieces displayed so proudly around it.

She didn’t know the artist.

But there was something about it that felt almost uncomfortably private, as though she had accidentally opened a door and witnessed something never intended for another person’s eyes.

’Whoever made this was in pain.’

’A very deep, private kind of pain.’

For several more seconds, Aren couldn’t bring herself to look away.

Then, reluctantly, she forced her gaze from the painting and continued after Jordan.