At the moment, the Profacci mansion felt like a bustling paradise, a portrait of domestic normalcy that seemed almost obscene given the violence that had unfolded within its walls just hours before. One couldn't have guessed that this was a scene where murder had been attempted, where blood had been spilled and bodies had fallen. The mansion was bursting with so much colorful activity that you would think it was fantasyland—maids moving through corridors with fresh linens, groundskeepers tending to the garden as if death hadn't come calling, the kitchen staff preparing meals with the same precision they'd shown for decades.
The Profacci machine continued despite tragedy, relentless and unstoppable, a testament to something larger than any individual life or death.
They stepped through th
