Isla’s POV
Silence has a sound when you grow up inside it.
It hums. Low. Persistent. Like a room after someone has slammed a door and you’re still waiting for the echo to decide whether it will fade or come back louder.
That’s how Vincenzo’s house feels this morning.
I lie awake longer than necessary, staring at a ceiling that isn’t mine, tracing the faint shadow where crown molding meets marble. The room smells like linen and something sharper beneath it—cleaner than comfort. Everything here is intentional. Curated. Even the air feels managed.
My phone rests on the nightstand, screen dark, but I can feel it anyway. Like a pulse. Like a hand on my wrist.
I don’t need to look to know what’s there.
The message didn’t say much. No greeting. No explanation. No Isla.
Just a summons dre
