The silence in the library after Marco’s departure was a physical presence, thick and heavy with the dust of shattered legacies. Alessandro remained motionless, his hands still braced on the table, his head bowed as if in prayer. But this was no prayer; it was a vigil for a past that had never truly existed.
Isabella watched him, her own heart aching with a sympathy so profound it felt like a wound. She had uncovered the pattern, but he was the one living its devastation. The paintings weren't just art; they were his mother’s voice, his inheritance, the pillars of a world he had built to honor her. And Gabe had not just toppled them; he had revealed they were made of sand.
“Alessandro,” she said softly, her voice the only sound in the vast, tomb-like room.
He didn’t look up. “All these
