Alessandro was the first to break the spell. He took a single, deliberate step forward, his movement a study in controlled fury, his eyes, black pools of promised retribution, were fixed solely on Gabe.
“You dare,” Alessandro’s voice was low, but it carried through the silence like a crack of thunder, “to speak her name? To wear her memory like some cheap accessory?”
Gabe’s smile was a sickle moon, sharp and cold. “I wear it as a reminder, Sandro. A reminder of beauty that was never properly appreciated. Of truth that was ignored.” His eyes flickered to Isabella, and the focus of his malice shifted with unnerving speed. “But we’re not here to talk about the past, are we? We’re here to talk about art. And expertise.”
He turned his body fully towards the crowd, becoming a perverse showman
