San Shao sat in the innermost chair.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark-gray suit, with platinum cufflinks and a meticulously tied tie.

His back was straight as a board, his legs crossed, his hands clasped in his lap—exuding the distinctive air of aristocratic poise and composure that only someone who has known from birth that he stands at the pinnacle of the social pyramid could possess.

He sat there, motionless.

“Old Six,” he called out to Vio.

Vio walked over and sat down opposite him. Leaning back against the chair, he stretched out his legs, looking every bit as relaxed as if he were on vacation.

San Shao’s gaze swept over him; seeing how casually he was dressed, he frowned slightly.

As expected—bastards just don’t have any sense of propriety.

“I’ve been wondering why Big Brother keeps flying off to the United Arab Emirates,” San Shao said, his tone calm as he withdrew his gaze. “Turns out you really are here.”

He paused for a moment.

“Seven years without seeing you, little brother,” he said, looking at Vio. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Bilyin stood by the door, and upon hearing this, his heart stirred. He couldn’t help but glance at Vio.

The Mancello Family. Bloodline is what they value most.

Only those of Anglo-Saxon descent, Protestant faith, and whose ancestors once sailed on the Mayflower can truly be considered one of them. Everyone else is an outsider.

Mr. Mansero had light-gray eyes, like the glint reflecting off ice. Mr. Mancello’s eyes were a deeper gray—darker, more somber.

In terms of appearance, Mr. Mancello was clearly of mixed heritage.

How could the Mancello Family possibly have mixed blood?

Vio let out a scornful laugh.

“You miss me?” He leaned back in his chair, staring at San Shao. “You must miss me dead.”

“Vio, how can you think such things about your own brother?”

San Shao’s voice softened, as if coaxing a sulky child.

“I’ve been searching for you for so many years—really, I just wanted to bring you back.”

“For these past seven years, we’ve all spoken highly of you to Father, hoping you’d come home.”

Vio shifted slightly in his seat.

Bilyin, quick-eyed as ever, promptly grabbed the bottle of Riesling from the serving cart, twisted the corkscrew twice, and with a soft pop, the cork shot out.

He bent forward, and the crisp wine slowly poured into two stemmed glasses.

Vio looked at the glasses, a faint smile playing on his lips—but there was no warmth in his eyes.

“Seven years ago, you deliberately provoked me, forcing me to strike you so Father could see it,” he said, raising his eyes. “That’s how I was cast out by the family.”

Bilyin’s hand froze mid-air, the bottle suspended above the table.

“Seven years ago—in Mogadishu,” Vio said calmly. “You sent people to assassinate me, a penniless, powerless beggar.”

He locked eyes with San Shao.

“You thought I was dead. But I wasn’t, was I?”

By the time Bilyin had finished pouring the two glasses, beads of sweat had already begun to form on his forehead.

Standing by the table with the bottle in his hand, his mind raced.

If Mr. Mancello is the elder brother, shouldn’t the wine be moved over to his side first?

But then he glanced at Vio’s expression—and ultimately decided to move both glasses at once, pushing them simultaneously toward the two men.

This three-meter-long table is equipped with an automatic serving system that delivers the drinks to both sides simultaneously.

San Shao offered a polite smile.

The curve of that smile was just right—not too wide, not too narrow—it was clear he’d practiced it since childhood.

“Seven years ago, you were still young, and even though I was your older brother, I wasn’t very sensible back then,” he said gently, as if confessing. “Now I know I was wrong.”

He studied Vio carefully.

Seven years later, this kid still acts as if no one else matters.

The Mancello Family places great emphasis on propriety, rules, and proper decorum—yet from a young age, Vio has never followed the rules, always infuriating their father.

End of Chapter 43: Chapter 43