My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas
Chapter 75: Culprit No.4 ( Emiliano’s POV )

Chapter 75: Culprit No.4 ( Emiliano’s POV )

My house is a disaster, but it’s really my own fault for that. That’s what happens when you leave your pet’s emotional pet alone.

He will make a mess, dirty your furniture and max out your credit cards on food he barely nibbles.

So he was not the reason for my foul mood.

Sure, Killian could have tamed his little bo-ty call better, but I didn’t expect much from the beginning.

I just made a mental note to lock him up in a cage the next time I leave the house.

The real headache was the charismatic tumor that glued to my wife’s heart under the name of Tom. He entered my house like a cheap detective and refused to leave.

I can’t upset my wife by disposing of him without risking the tumor growing even deeper. But that doesn’t mean I can’t poke it.

Who knows?

Maybe it will pop right off if I apply enough pressure. So I am bringing the walking lump into my own laboratory with the hope that it will scare away on its own.

"Jesus, this hallway is long."

Only I could be lucky enough to deal with a complaining tumor. Nonetheless, I was proud to bring someone else in the basement to see my collection. Luther didn’t like it that much.

Of course, I don’t have any real expectations. More so, I was expecting him to start a lawsuit against me for all the illegal masterpieces hanging on the wall.

We started on the third floor, just outside the laundry room. The hallway was warm up there—sunlit and pleasant, with the faint scent of fabric softener still lingering in the air. You could hear the low hum of a dryer behind the door and smell the hint of coffee drifting up from the kitchen below. The walls were painted a soft cream, with framed family photos spaced evenly down the corridor—laughing kids, summer picnics, one obviously staged Christmas morning. Fake, yes, but convincingly so. People like the illusion of love. Makes them more relaxed.

I caught my guest glancing at the photos with a slight frown, like something didn’t sit quite right. He didn’t say anything, just adjusted his collar and walked a little slower.

The lighting changed as we descended to the second floor—still warm, but dimmer, more muted. The pictures here were older, more formal: sepia tones, stiff smiles, a few people who looked like they hadn’t enjoyed having their photo taken. I liked the mood here. It filtered people. If they got too chatty upstairs, this usually quieted them down.

My guest didn’t comment. He just ran his hand along the rail of the staircase, eyes flicking down the next flight. I could see the tension starting to gather behind his otherwise calm expression. Not fear—just that slight itch of discomfort. Like when you realize the air in the room’s gone still, and you’re not sure why.

By the time we reached the first floor, the decor had thinned. No more family photos, just smooth white walls and polished floors that clicked sharply under our shoes. The smell was different too—cleaner, but colder. Like antiseptic had been sprayed, wiped, and left to dry. I knew he noticed it. He shifted his jaw slightly, breathing through his nose, eyes scanning the blank walls now like he expected something hidden behind them.

And then came the basement.

We stepped through the fireproof door, and I watched his posture change just a little. Still composed. Still polite. But his eyes didn’t leave the fluorescent lights above us, the way they flickered softly with that familiar buzz.

The stairwell to the basement was narrower. White tile. Stainless steel railings. A sterile chill clung to the air—clinical and sharp, like the scent of bandages and bleach. The sound of our footsteps echoed too easily down there, like the place had been built to feel emptier than it was.

"You had to make sure I didn’t skip the leg day, didn’t you?"

"Of course, Tommy dear, I had to make sure they are strong enough for you to run from me."

"Maybe I’ll get scared and just run up in your arms. You would protect me, wouldn’t you?"

He winked teasingly.

Disgusting.

I crunched my nose and continued to walk.

The hallway at the base was long—perfectly straight, perfectly lit. The walls here were seamless, no pictures, no seams, just a blank expanse that hummed faintly with electricity and memory. He didn’t stop walking, to his credit, but his eyes flicked to every corner like he expected something to shift.

I glanced at him sidelong, amused by how he carried himself—so calm, so composed, but just bothered enough to notice the change in the air.

We finally reached the door.

I walked in first without turning the lights. Tom followed me with a more bothered expression than before.

Just like a bunny walking benevolently into a wolf’s mouth.

"Can’t afford a light in here?", Tom asked jokingly.

But I could feel the stress under the charismatic tone. He was just a little tad scared.

Good.

I clapped my hands, causing the lights to turn on. Yeah, I had fancy rich people things like that.

And so, his eyes wide as he glanced upon my collection of masterpieces.

Like all the others before him, he took a step back.

They don’t realize what they’re looking at, not right away. The lighting helps—warm, low, focused just enough to draw the eye. Framed along the far wall, centered, clean. No glass. I don’t like barriers between the art and the air.

It’s stomach skin. Lower abdomen, to be precise. Soft, even-toned, still with a faint natural stretch—beautiful in a way that’s almost private. There’s something honest about that part of the body. It’s where life grows, where fear settles, where people press their hands when they’re nervous. To take that part and preserve it in bloom... that’s something special.

They’re omega markings. Rare. Sacred to some. Dismissed by fools.

They only bloom on the stomach, low and central, like the body wants the world to know exactly where it was held, kissed, worshipped.

The petals and vines, curling, vivid, alive. Nature printed in flesh. No tattoo needle. No dye. Just the body, giving its final answer.

This piece is stomach skin—smooth, still supple, with the faint tension of muscle beneath.

You’ll find foxglove curling in tight spirals near the ribs, their drooping bells delicate and poisonous. Oleander drapes across the lower stomach in thick pink clusters, bright and deceptively soft. Datura blooms near the hips—large, pale trumpets that seem to shimmer even under glass, their edges curled as if whispering secrets.

Even the smaller ones aren’t innocent. Buttercups, glossy and gold, dot the skin like childhood, but they hide acid in their veins. Aconite—wolf’s bane—sprouts like little purple warnings along the curve of the side, sharp-petaled and proud. There are tiny lily-of-the-valley bells nestled near the center, white and sweet-looking, each one carrying enough poison to still a heart if you took them seriously.

"My God", I hear him mumbling.

"Do you like it?"

"You’re a freak."

"Did you just figure it out?"

Tom gulped, gaining the courage to make a few steps forward.

"You killed all these omegas when-"

"When they got their release. It’s poetic, isn’t it? While your mind still drowns itself in serotonin and dopamine from the peak of intimate moments, you can’t even feel the knife skinning you alive."

"They were still alive when you-"

"Of course, Tommy dear, the bloom faded the moment they felt pain or fear or discomfort."

Tom staggered in his walk, while he couldn’t help but have his eyes glued on my collection.

"They are all toxic flowers. Like Luther.", he mumbled to himself.

"Yes."

"You want to put Luther in your collection?"

He was shaking—just slightly, but enough to notice. His fists clenched and unclenched like they had their own heartbeat. His jaw was locked so tight I could almost hear his teeth grind. He wasn’t breathing right, just short, shallow pulls through his nose, like each one was a fight not to explode. His eyes never left me. And behind all that forced stillness, I could see it—barely contained rage, coiled up and begging for permission.

He couldn’t fight me.

It would upset my wife and he already saw what happened to the hospital with Killian.

He was smart enough to keep it to himself.

"I don’t. I have bigger plans for my wife."

The reassurance didn’t seem to calm him down at all.

"Emiliano."

He didn’t use a nickname this time. Just my name.

The word was clipped, pressed through clenched teeth, the kind of tone that made the air around it feel sharper. He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to. The restraint in his voice was louder than shouting—like the calm right before something breaks.

"Yes?"

"Did you kill the Prime Minister?"

"What do you think?"

"That you did."

"Well, then, Mister Big Bad Lawyer, prove it!"