Nero, the Incubus Doppelganger's branch

The Cuckold’s Crucible

The knock at the door was a gunshot to Zeno’s perfect evening.

Mara’s lips—soft, warm, inches from his—pulled away with a sigh as the rapping came again, louder this time. Impatient.

“Who the hell—?” Zeno muttered, peeling himself off the couch where his girlfriend lay sprawled in her tight leggings and oversized university sweater. The fabric stretched obscenely over her J-cup chest, the outline of her nipples visible even in the dim lamplight. Two years of blue-balled longing, and now this interruption.

Mara’s raven brows furrowed. “Just ignore it.” Her fingers curled into his shirt, trying to tug him back down.

Another knock. Harder.

Zeno groaned. “One second.”

He should’ve listened to her.

The Unwelcome Guest

The door swung open to reveal Ettore Bianchi—Zeno’s father, a broad-shouldered relic of post-war Italian masculinity, his salt-and-pepper stubble framing a mouth perpetually set in a disapproving line. But something was off.

The way his father’s eyes lingered—not on Zeno, but past him, into the apartment. Into the living room where Mara lay.

“Dad?” Zeno’s voice cracked.

Ettore’s lips curled. Not a smile. A predator’s grin. “Hey, sport.”

The old nickname—dripping with condescension—made Zeno’s spine stiffen. “What are you—?”

“Raised you better than to leave your father on the porch.” Ettore shouldered past him, his suitcase rolling behind like a loyal hound. The scent of cigars and something darker—musky, primal—clung to him.

Mara sat up, her pale cheeks flushing as Ettore’s gaze raked over her. “Zeno…?”

Zeno swallowed. “Dad, this really isn’t a good—”

“Your mother and I had a fight.” Ettore dropped his bag onto the couch—Mara’s couch—with a thud. “I’m staying here.”