Morning came quietly over the Romano estate, deceptive in its calm.
The sun rose over marble floors, wrought iron balconies, and centuries-old walls that had witnessed blood, betrayal, and power shifts more times than history cared to count. Birds sang in the gardens as if nothing had happened.
Yet inside the main council room, silence pressed heavy.
The kind of silence that only existed before violence.
Giovanni Romano sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his presence alone enough to command the room without raising his voice. Age had silvered his hair but sharpened his gaze. He wore a simple dark suit, no unnecessary luxury, because men like Giovanni never needed to prove wealth.
Power clung to him naturally.
To his right sat Giancarlo, his first son.
Broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, composed. A man who looked every inch like an heir even if the title hadn't been spoken aloud. His expression was calm, but his jaw was tight, restrained anger simmering beneath control.
