The tension in the dining room was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words and simmering anger. Annabelle sat rigidly in her chair, her hands clenched into fists under the table. She could feel the weight of Angelina’s glare, the woman’s lips curling into a sneer as she leaned forward, her voice sharp and cutting.
“You think you can just waltz in here and disrespect us?” Angelina spat, even after Grandfather Morano had stopped them. Her tone dripping with venom. “You have no manners, no class. You’re nothing but a—”
“Enough,” Grandfather Morano’s voice cut through the room like a whip, his icy gaze silencing Angelina mid-sentence. “If you two don’t stop this childish behavior, I’ll lock you both in a room until you can act like adults. You’re not my children, but my children’s wives.
