I S A B E L L A
The next morning.
We gather in one of the unfinished rooms of the new mansion. The walls are bare, the furniture minimal, but the tension in the air is anything but empty. It presses down on all of us, thick and unspoken, as we take our seats. Angelo stands at the head of the room, his arms crossed, expression tight. He’s been running on little sleep, I can tell by the subtle shadows under his eyes, the slight strain in his posture. Even as we slept the night before, he was tossing and turning, and at times, I would notice him step out of bed for a moment before returning. He's still exhausted. But he doesn’t show it beyond that. He never does.
Across from him, Giulio leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table. Alessio sits beside him, his usual
