Luciano’s POV
After Isabella left my room, the silence she abandoned behind felt heavier than her presence.
London had shaped her into something sharper, louder, and harder to predict. She had lived there for years, building her own empire of fashion shows, charity galas, far from blood, docks, and gunpowder. The only time she returned before now was for our father’s burial. She stayed one night. The next morning she was gone, claiming the mansion suffocated her grief.
She said she could not mourn inside the walls that she grew up in.
I never argued.
But I knew my sister.
She did nothing without a reason.
And if she had come back now, in the middle of tension and shifting alliances, then something had pulled her home.
I will find out what.
Time always reveals what pride hides.
Ar
