Manhattan.
A city where all the world’s desires converge.
“If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere”—this saying exists for good reason. This massive city, seething with fierce competition, endlessly produces winners and losers.
A battleground for those who flock here, each harboring different dreams and purposes.
Elian Ward was one of those people.
No, Elian Bellotti was too.
An ordinary morning, no different from any other day preparing for work.
Having roughly finished combing his hair, Elian picked up the wristwatch he always kept on his desk. The old leather-strapped watch was a cherished keepsake from his father. Ever since receiving it from his mother on his seventeenth birthday, the watch had always been with Elian. Though he’d already replaced the strap twice, the watch hands still pointed to the exact time. It would hold up just fine for several more years.
Finally, he took his suppressants. It was to keep his pheromone levels stable.
A gentle breeze blew in through the open window. If his sense of smell had been intact, he would have been able to smell the savory aroma of focaccia baking in the restaurant downstairs. But no matter how deeply he inhaled, he couldn’t sense any fragrance. Ever since moving to New York, his sense of smell had been rapidly losing its function.
Elian had stretched his arm over the desk to close the window when he paused for a moment. His gaze was momentarily stolen by the scene before him.
The tall vertical window directly faced Manhattan’s glamorous southern skyline across the East River. Though it was just a small room of barely five hundred square feet, this view was no less impressive than any high-rise condo in New York.
Despite having commuted to and from that island for work for several months now, Elian still didn’t feel the reality of being part of it.
Whenever he gazed at that brilliant scenery from this modest room in Brooklyn, it still felt like a photograph in a frame or a poster. A poster rendered so vividly and in such detail that it felt real.
He could faintly sense autumn in the breeze. The mornings were no longer muggy. New York’s unusually long and tedious summer was coming to an end.
Before leaving the room, he grabbed his bike keys, helmet, and backpack. His preparations for work were complete.
Going downstairs, Elian entered the restaurant on the building’s first floor. It was to have breakfast here before heading to work.
A warm, lively, familiar atmosphere greeted Elian. Along with the light bickering of the married couple, Matteo and Lina.
“I told you to add more olive oil to the focaccia.”
“It looks plenty appetizing, what’s the problem?”
“Look. The bread looks dry and crumbly.”
“Dry-looking? This is authentic Tuscan style.”
“Teo, you were born in Astoria, Queens. You’ve only been to Tuscany once in your entire life.”
The two people who owned the restaurant and were also the landlords of this building where Elian resided.
They were starting their day this morning the same as always.
“Ah, Elian’s come down! Hurry and sit. You need to eat breakfast.”
Matteo, who had been in the kitchen, was the first to notice Elian and welcomed him. Elian also greeted the two with a smile and took his seat at the bar stool in front of the counter where he always sat.
“Did you sleep well?”
From across the counter, Lina approached Elian and asked worriedly.
“Vince told me you came in late yesterday. You must be tired.”
“I’m okay. It doesn’t happen often.”
“Did the bar ask you to work overtime?”
“Um… something like that.”
“Breakfast? The usual?”
“Yes.”
“What coffee do you want today?”
“I’ll have an Americano.”
“Iced?”
“Yes.”
Lina turned toward the kitchen behind her and called out the order. Panini made with mozzarella cheese and Italian ham. It was the breakfast Elian had ordered almost every morning without fail since coming here.
Through the large window that allowed a clear view into the kitchen, Matteo held up freshly made bread.
“Already making it.”
Northwest Brooklyn Heights.
A red brick building constructed in the late 19th century.
Operating on the first floor, “Abbraccio (Embrace)” was an Italian restaurant run by Lina’s parents, and it was a sanctuary for local residents with a substantial base of regular customers.
Despite advantages like generous portions that had become hard to find not only in Manhattan but throughout all of New York City, delicious food, reasonable prices, and a Manhattan view, the restaurant’s main customers were still loyal regulars. This was because it wasn’t a place that chased trends popular on social media.
Lina and Matteo had absolutely no intention of changing the restaurant’s atmosphere to match trends. Their reasoning was that they might lose precious regulars if they tried to cater to the tastes of drifters who moved from place to place just to take photos.
“Here… coffee and panini.”
Lina set down a white plate and a clear cup in front of Elian.
Even with coffee made from good beans and warmly toasted panini, Elian could barely smell anything. But naturally, even if he couldn’t smell, he still felt hunger.
Just as Elian was beginning his meal with a sip of coffee, a young man pushed open the back door of “Abbraccio.”
Tall with a well-trained, solid body, the man with wavy black hair tied back tightly had something eye-catching about him despite his plain clothing.
He shook his head from side to side while taking off his work gloves.
“We’re going to have to call a professional for the plumbing.”
Matteo, who had been walking out of the kitchen, spoke in a dismissive tone.
“A professional? You mean those guys who take days to fix things half-assedly and then just charge expensive fees?”
“Yes, those guys. At least they do fix it.”
“Last time, it took those guys three days just to fix a toilet.”
“Then why don’t you try looking at it yourself, Father?”
The man who replied half-heartedly placed his hand lightly on Elian’s shoulder as he passed by him sitting at the bar.
“Oh, you came down.”
“Yeah.”
At the curt response, the man chuckled and lightly tousled Elian’s hair.
He was Vincent, the son of Lina and Matteo and Elian’s childhood friend.
A tattoo of the Virgin Mary etched on his upper arm was half-visible under the left sleeve of his t-shirt that exposed his muscular upper body. On Vincent’s right forearm, LINA and MATTEO—his parents’ names—were inscribed in fancy italics.
Vincent was a third-generation immigrant and, unlike his parents, barely spoke Italian. But when you saw his values that prioritized family above all else in life and his aversion to American-style pizza, you could tell that Italian blood flowed through him too.
Vincent tossed down his gloves and washed his hands. Matteo clicked his tongue at his son’s back and sat down on a chair inside the counter.
“When I was your age, I fixed everything in the house with my own hands. You don’t even think to try it yourself and just want to call someone?”
Having scolded Vincent, Matteo habitually looked up at the TV above. His tanned face instantly wrinkled with displeasure.
“By the way, is that bastard’s funeral still newsworthy?”
On the TV news, people dressed in black suits were gathered in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
The camera alternately zoomed in close-up on several serious-looking faces.
It was the funeral of Damon Lockhart, which had caused a stir not only in New York but throughout all of America.
The announcer’s somewhat excited intonation flowed from the TV.
《Last spring, Damon Lockhart, the head leading the Lockhart Group, suddenly collapsed. He had since been receiving treatment at St. Aurelius Hospital, sponsored by the Lockhart Medical Foundation, but passed away last week. Accordingly, the Lockhart family is expected to designate an official heir for succession to the next head through a Family Council, following tradition. Attention is focused on who will be decided as the crown prince of the Lockhart Group, which has influence not only in New York and throughout America but globally.》
Vincent, who had glanced up at the TV while operating the espresso machine, replied to Matteo.
“It’s not because of the funeral, it’s about the successor this time.”
“Why the successor? I thought it was obvious the eldest son would inherit.”
“It’ll probably be likely. Unless the second son declares he’s also entering as a candidate.”
“The second son? You mean that troublemaker? What does a guy who only did sports know about management?”
Matteo snorted while pointing at the man who happened to be on screen at that moment.
Dark brown curly hair like chocolate, thick eyebrows, and sensual red lips. A robust physique even viewing on screen. A vibrant young man who, despite wearing a black suit and making a serious expression, seemed to have mischievous playfulness tickling at his green eyes and the corners of his mouth. He was the second son of the Lockhart family.
Vincent, having pulled a shot of espresso, brought the coffee cup to his lips and said,
“That’s not entirely true. He quit sports 4-5 years ago already. Since then, he’s been in charge of finance and media at Lockhart. The reviews aren’t bad either.”
“Even so, he’s not chairman material. Unless the eldest son is a flake. His older brother has devoted his entire life to the company.”
Matteo pointed at the TV once more.
In the meantime, the screen had changed direction and was showing a man immersed in grief and gloom.
Sand blonde hair arranged without a single strand out of place, pale skin, dark red lips pressed tightly together showing stubbornness. Light green eyes with a cold and nervous atmosphere and furrowed brows. A man with a considerable physique like his younger brother but who appeared elegant thanks to his restrained movements. He was the eldest son of the Lockhart family.
