The room where Isabella met her father was smaller than she remembered.
Once, it had felt vast its ceilings too high, its walls lined with portraits of Romanos long dead, men who had ruled with iron smiles and bloodied hands. As a child, Isabella had thought the room sacred. Untouchable. A place where truth lived.
Now it felt like a mausoleum.
Antonio Romano stood near the window, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. Age had finally begun to claim him. His shoulders were still straight, but the weight of years pressed visibly into his spine. His hair, once raven-black, was streaked heavily with grey. He did not turn when she entered.
He already knew she was there.
"Close the door," Antonio said quietly. Not a command. Not a plea. Just a statement.
Isabella did.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
