The grand dining hall smelled of polished wood and fresh flowers, but the air felt heavy. Every footstep echoed across the marble floors, and every movement under the chandelier's glow seemed magnified. I could feel Alessandro's hand tighten around mine as we walked in. My pulse quickened—not just from the grandeur of the room, but from the unspoken tension swirling around us.
Alessandro's father sat at the head of the table, an imposing figure whose sharp eyes could cut through stone. "Sit," he said without preamble, his voice low and commanding. We obeyed.
The first few minutes were polite—light conversation, greetings exchanged. But then Alessandro's father leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. His gaze didn't leave Alessandro.
"I've been thinking," he said, his voice measured
