The Fruit of Immorality - Chapter 26

Chapter 26: Epilogue (Part 3)

Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. Thinking of her soft, cuddly son brought a smile to her lips.

“That was just a fleeting moment, and I don’t regret it at all. In fact, I’m happy to have a precious child like Theo.”

Alessandro shared the sentiment as he gently cupped Theodore’s cheek. The child’s small face easily fit into his large hand.

As Alessandro lightly stroked Theodore’s cheek, he said with a smile, “If you get hurt again, your mother will be the first to collapse.”

Beatrice gave Alessandro a teasing glare at his playful remark.

Alessandro playfully shrugged at Theodore. The child, initially stiff from his uncle’s teasing, soon relaxed and started running around again with a beaming face. He had so much energy that by the end of their playtime, even Alessandro seemed a little tired.

When Alessandro suggested they take a break, the panting Theodore ran back to Beatrice.

“Here, drink this, Theo.”

“Hah… Thank… you, Mother!”

Beatrice, worried that her son might be completely out of breath, handed him some water.

Theodore gulped it down, his feet lightly kicking the ground in excitement.

The cool breeze ruffled Theodore’s short hair as he let out a satisfied sigh, feeling refreshed by the wind that cooled his sweat. As he drank, his eyes shifted toward Alessandro, who was walking over with the ball Theodore had kicked too far.

A servant was nervously fretting nearby, unable to complete his tasks because Alessandro had ordered everyone to let him spend time with Theodore undisturbed.

It was rare for someone of Alessandro’s status to fetch a ball or play like this with his nephew. Moreover, Alessandro had postponed a busy schedule just to fulfill Theodore’s request for an outing.

None of Theodore’s friends had an uncle like Alessandro. When they heard stories about his uncle, they often expressed envy, saying how lucky Theodore was to have such a kind and caring figure in his life.

Suddenly, Theodore’s chest swelled with emotion. He stood up abruptly and waved his arms, calling out, “Hurry, come here, Dad!”

Realizing what he had just said, Theodore’s eyes widened in shock, and he quickly covered his mouth with both hands.

Why did I call Uncle ‘Dad’? Dad passed away before I was even born… What if Uncle doesn’t like that I made such a mistake? What if he hates me…?

Theodore’s eyes welled up with tears, but Alessandro, seeing the child’s worry, merely smiled. Contrary to Theodore’s fears, Alessandro looked pleased.

As he approached, Alessandro gently ruffled Theodore’s hair and whispered, “Yes, Theo. From now on, you can call me that.”

“Really? Can I really call you ‘Dad’?”

“You’re my son. That’s how I’ve always felt.”

Theodore’s eyes grew even wider at Alessandro’s words. The warm feeling in his chest swelled until it felt as if his heart might burst.

Theodore had always wished for a father. Not just any father, but someone like Alessandro.

In fact, Theodore had secretly hoped Alessandro would be his real father. Alessandro was kind, strong, and—more than anything else—he looked so much like Theodore.

But alas, they were only uncle and nephew. Theodore had often felt sad that they couldn’t truly be father and son.

But now…

The child’s eyes sparkled with joy, curving into crescents as he smiled brightly.

“I’m so happy, Uncle—no, Dad!”

Theodore stretched out his arms, and Alessandro lifted him effortlessly. Theodore clung to his neck, happily hanging on.

Holding the child who resembled both Beatrice and himself, Alessandro smiled contentedly.

The warm sunlight embraced the two, who looked so much like father and son.

***

Alessandro Clasis never married. Throughout his life, he devoted himself to taking care of his widowed sister-in-law, Beatrice, and showered his one and only nephew, Theodore Clasis, with affection.

However, Alessandro Clasis wasn’t alone forever. One day, he brought home a child born out of wedlock, whose mother’s identity was unknown.

The girl, though still an infant, had inherited all of Alessandro’s distinct features—dark curly hair, deep green eyes, and even dimples that appeared when she smiled.

He cherished his late-born daughter, Lucia, the unexpected blessing in his life. Alessandro gave her the Clasis family name and left her all his wealth.

He made every effort to ensure that Lucia’s life was filled with beauty and prosperity, as if each of her steps were paved with gold and flowers.

He called her a gift from the heavens and refused to let her out of his arms until she was old enough to feel embarrassed by it during her teenage years.

Although Lucia occasionally wondered about her biological mother, she was never truly curious for long.

Beatrice, her aunt by blood, raised her with a love more compassionate than any mother’s, and Theodore, her cousin, cared for her as if she were his own sibling.

Whenever the four of them went out together, people assumed they were a close-knit family, which wasn’t far from the truth.

Alessandro remained faithful to two women throughout his life: his sister-in-law, Beatrice, and his daughter, Lucia.

His unwavering devotion to these two women was well known, both during his life and after his death.

Yet no one ever realized that Lucia Clasis bore an uncanny resemblance to her aunt, Beatrice.

Nor was it known that, ten months before the newborn Lucia was brought into the Clasis mansion in Alessandro’s arms, Beatrice had spent time recuperating in a secluded villa far from the capital.

***

Side Story: Alessandro Clasis

I don’t know when it started.

When had my eyes begun to follow her, and my mind constantly turn toward her? If I wasn’t careful, she would occupy my thoughts at all times and in all places.

She wasn’t an extraordinary beauty. She didn’t possess a striking allure that would grab anyone’s attention at first glance, nor was she bold or charismatic in any conventional way.

But watching her made me smile.

Sometimes, it was just a quiet smile that tugged at the corners of my lips. Other times, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Without even realizing it, I was smiling brightly more often than not.

It wasn’t as though she did anything particularly funny or remarkable. Yet somehow, just by watching her, I felt like I was becoming someone I didn’t know—a version of myself I hadn’t known before.

She was the one who taught me emotions, though she never explained where they came from.

Why did I want to do things I shouldn’t? Why did these impulses arise?

I wanted to hold her fragile form as she stood at the window, staring outside. I wanted to kiss her sorrowful expression, as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

I wanted to kiss the tear-stained face that silently cried throughout the night, to lap at the tears that still glistened in her eyes.

I wanted to grab her rigid body, turn her around, and embrace her tightly.

When she smiled at me, her eyes curved like crescent moons, and I loved that about her. When she called my name, “Aless,” in that soft voice, it sent shivers down my spine.

I wanted to leave my mark on her delicate ankles that peeked out from beneath the hem of her dress.

I wanted to sink my teeth into the graceful curve of her deer-like neck, twirl her hair around my fingers, bury my face in her scent until I suffocated from it.

But I couldn’t. She wasn’t mine. She was someone I could never have.

Watching her closely had once brought me secret joy, but as time passed, it became a painful torment because I could never make her mine.

At night, the seductive image of her would appear in my dreams, and I would hold her tightly, kiss her, and indulge my desires. In my dreams, she was mine to possess completely.

But then I would wake up, clutching my sweat-soaked sheets, wracked with guilt, feeling nauseated by the shame of it all.

Seeing her smile so innocently, unaware of the dreams I’d had, was unbearable.

There were times when I avoided sleep altogether, refusing to dream, until I collapsed from exhaustion.

Was I mad? Or was there something else wrong with me?

Back then, there was so much I didn’t understand.

But when I finally realized that I wanted to make her mine—when that thought consumed me—I knew I had to leave.

I had to escape before I lost control, before my restraint completely snapped.

As I prepared to leave, a part of me felt relieved.

Watching her sad eyes as she looked at me, it was hard to walk away, but at least I wouldn’t have to see her beneath another man, moaning in pain.

Her kind eyes never held the same passion for me that mine did for her. I was relieved to think that I wouldn’t have to endure the disappointment of hoping she might one day see me as a man.

But when I left, I found myself missing everything—the things that had once caused me pain, even the smallest details.

Every night, I thought of her. I imagined her smiling at me, calling my name. Sometimes, I even imagined the sounds she made when she was beneath my brother.

I would close my eyes, picture her face, and immediately become aroused.

Every night, I found release, thinking of her.

Once a week, I received a letter from her. Her neat handwriting was enough to drive me mad with desire. I was a wretched fool, aroused just from seeing her handwriting. I wasn’t even a man—I was less than a dog.

I buried my nose in her letters, inhaling deeply as if they still carried her scent, gripping myself as I whispered her name. “Bea, Bea.” I fantasized about possessing her.

Even on the battlefield, nothing changed. The smell of blood and the violence of war didn’t stop my desire. I didn’t seek out other women to satisfy myself, no matter how easy it would have been.

At times, when I saw women who resembled her—those with pale skin like hers, those who wore the same sorrowful expression, or those whose silhouettes were similar—I would briefly consider whether I could quell his rising anger and anxiety by using lust, just like the other men.

I could close his eyes, imagine it was her, call her name while being with someone else, share my affection with another woman…

It wouldn’t have been difficult. The women around the battlefield were usually familiar with many men, accustomed to such encounters. For just a few coins, I could spend the night with them. It would be an easy task to throw them down and satisfy my filthy desires whenever I wished.

But I couldn’t do it.

I didn’t even know why. I just couldn’t bring myself to.

Perhaps it was because, while many women resembled her, none of them were her. My wretched body was as loyal as a dog, refusing to respond to anyone but her.

In the end, I made the decision to return to her.

It wasn’t out of some newfound resolve—it was simply because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t bear being away from her any longer.

The moment I saw her again, I realized something.

She had been waiting for me. The surprise in her wide eyes as she saw me, now fully grown, confirmed it.

At that moment, I thought, I must have her.

That single thought consumed my entire being.

Like a beast that had broken free of its chains, the desire I had buried for so long overwhelmed me in waves.

From that moment on, I was no longer a man. A creature controlled by its desires, no longer capable of rational thought, could hardly be called human.

What remained of Alessandro Clasis was only one thing: An overwhelming, desperate, and all-consuming goal.

I would make Beatrice Clasis mine—no matter what it took, no matter what sins I had to commit, no matter if it meant I would be damned to hell.

That was the only thing that mattered.

<The Fruit of Immorality> End