The house was quiet again after dinner. Celeste had gone upstairs, humming softly as she disappeared into her old room. The warmth of her laughter still echoed faintly through the hallways.
Marcello stood alone in the dining room for a while, staring at the half-empty wine glass in his hand. The moment between father and daughter had been beautiful, almost too beautiful — enough to make him forget, for just a second, what he had planned.
But only for a second.
He set the glass down gently and turned toward the hallway. “Raffaele,” he called.
From the shadows near the door, a tall man stepped forward. Dressed in black, his face calm but alert, Raffaele gave a short bow. “Yes, sir?”
Marcello motioned toward the study. “Come. It’s time we talked.”
The two men walked down the long corrid
