The silence felt heavy enough to crush bone.
Marcus stood rooted to the Persian rug, the one his mother had chosen in Florence the year before everything shattered. The same rug that had once soaked up spilled wine, dropped tears, and the muffled sounds of bodies colliding in rooms he was never meant to enter. Elisa's gaze drifted past him, past the velvet drapes and the gilded mirror that had watched too much, as though she were stepping backward into a world that still had color, scent, and sound; a world that refused to stay dead.
And then the house around them shifted.
FLASHBACK – DINING ROOM, 1996
Cigar smoke curled like incense around the chandelier, thick and blue and suffocating. Red wine stained every glass, every lip, every laugh. The men; Alessandro's capos, his cousins, his enemies wearing smiles; leaned back in their chairs, bellies full, tongues loose.
