The charm was warm in Aria’s palm by morning.
She’d slept with it under her pillow, as if the weight of someone else’s grief might quiet her own. It didn’t. But it gave her something to hold onto—something real in a house where everything felt like a performance.
She slipped it into her pocket before leaving the room.
Downstairs, the halls were eerily still. No guards hovered near the doors, and even the staff moved with hushed urgency. Something was off.
In the dining room, Luciano sat alone at the head of the table, dressed in black, a glass of scotch untouched beside him.
He didn’t look up when she walked in.
But he spoke. “You weren’t supposed to see me yesterday.”
She paused. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He finally looked at her.
“You didn’t interrupt. You reminded me I’m st
