The Rossi villa was cloaked in tension so thick it suffocated. Every corridor whispered with secrets, every room heavy with the scent of cigars and iron resolve. Adriana moved through it like a phantom, skirts whispering against marble floors, her heart pounding with an unshakable dread.
Her father had summoned the inner circle. That alone was enough to knot her stomach.
In the grand dining hall, Enzo Rossi sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his cane propped beside him, his dark suit impeccable. Marco lounged to his right, his gaze sharp, protective, already simmering with anger at the blood spilled in their home. Isabella sat opposite him, her expression a mask of serene poise, though her eyes glinted with something Adriana could not name—something dangerous.
Adriana took her
