I S A B E L L A
The moment we step inside, I’m struck by the sheer beauty of the place. Polished marble floors gleam under chandeliers that look like they cost more than most houses. As Angelo leads us down the wide hallway, we begin to hear the quiet murmur of multiple voices as well as soft-sounding jazz music. The further down we go, the closer we get to the source, until we finally see what it is. Men in sharp suits and women in elegant gowns stand around the large hall, their conversations a low murmur of power and intrigue.
I then grip onto Angelo's hand a little tighter, my nerves skyrocketing as I look around at all the people in the room. There are about 20 or more people standing around the room, each of them with their eyes landing on me specifically. The room goes dead silent
