The De Luca estate was never quiet for long.
By mid-morning, the halls buzzed with movement—men in suits, hushed conversations in Italian, the hum of danger so familiar it became background noise.
Aria stayed out of the way.
She’d learned early: silence was safer than curiosity.
But today felt different. The air was heavier. Tighter.
Even Clara, who usually smuggled her breakfast in with soft smiles and whispered jokes, didn’t say much. She only placed the tray down on Aria’s dresser and said, “Wear something black tonight.”
“Why?”
Clara didn’t answer. Just left with a look that said: don’t ask questions you’re not ready to survive.
—
By dusk, the estate looked transformed.
Candles lit every hallway. Men and women filed in through the east entrance in sleek suits and backless gow
