Two weeks had passed since Don Marino’s funeral, but the house had not returned to its old self. The once lively estate now felt like a mausoleum, each room haunted by the absence of its patriarch. The air was thick with silence, the kind that presses down on you, suffocating and heavy. It was a silence born of grief, of loss, and of an unspoken understanding that nothing would ever be the same again.
Isabella had taken up the mantle of leadership, the weight of her father’s legacy settling heavily on her shoulders. She had not been ready, and deep down, she knew she never would be. But there was no room for doubt, no time for second-guessing. The family needed a leader, and she had no choice but to become that person. So she buried her fear, her uncertainty, and her grief beneath layers
