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The days faded into one another, skewing Francesco's perception of time. It felt like he was meeting Assistant Morbidelli every two days, rather than weekly. At the start of December, Morbidelli announced that the boy was to attend a party. It was Baggio Group's last gathering of the year, with a few key affiliates and special guests.

The week before the party, Francesco had rigorous sessions with his governess. All his other lessons, besides etiquette, were cancelled. Posture, dancing, toasting, manoeuvring a crowded room, ordering his staff, sitting, eating, walking, conversational skills, conflict navigation, facial expressions, accident avoidance, handling, and recovery. Everything was on steroids, from sunrise until bedtime. The lessons stopped only for meals and when the designer came by to take his measurements and fittings.

The day before the party, a stylist came to the house. The man spoke English with a thick French accent. He wasn't the same kind of energetic as Cindy. He was snobbish and talked nonstop about his 'achievements' and future appointments.

Francesco sat quietly, enduring the man's ramblings. The boy remembered Cindy and how focused her eyes looked as she worked. This man was distracted and looking around the room more than he looked at Francesco's hair. He was stalling, occasionally lifting sections of hair, then excitedly combing and snipping. Francesco watched the man carefully through the mirror. When he lifted and combed through the same section of hair he had minutes earlier, the boy stopped him.

The boy raised his hand and twisted his wrist with practiced grace, swiping backwards gently.

The stylist swelled his chest and watched the boy wide-eyed. "...Mr. Francesco? Is something wrong?"

But the boy did not answer the man or look at him. Instead, he raised his hand again. This time, he flicked his raised index finger. The stylist exhaled and started babbling about the intricacies of cutting the boy's hair perfectly.

It worked. The boy smiled internally.

In the midst of the stylist's explanation, one of the maids stepped forward and warned the man that he should leave as Francesco no longer required his service.

Seeing the man make no effort to back down, two guards stepped forward; one grabbed the man by the elbow while the other placed himself between Francesco and the stylist. But the stylist still refused to concede and complained loudly about his poor treatment. Hearing the man boast about his clients and announcing that they would help him get justice for his current treatment, the boy exhaled in annoyance.

Seconds later, the guards dragged the stylist from the house. Francesco's gaze never left his reflection as he replayed the events that just occurred. He was conflicted; on the one hand, it felt good to be able to have that much power to order people around. On the other hand, he wondered whether he would become like Nicholas. The memory of Aurora defending Clarisse at the gallery came to him, and the boy smiled. His mother had looked cool. He would want to be like that.

The maid smiling in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

"What is it, Stella?"

"You are growing into your name, sir."

Francesco looked at the woman beaming at him. She seemed genuinely happy about his change of behaviour. Before, she had looked at him with pity and amusement after he had mistakenly said 'gracis'; now her eyes held hope.

"Trim my hair." He ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Stella was one of his personal maids, the one most often taking care of his hair. There was no reason she couldn't do it now. After Stella trimmed his hair and demonstrated a number of styles, the boy picked one for the party.