Morning sunlight flooded the marble corridors of the Ferrante estate as the last of the armoured syndicate sedans had departed down the winding cypress driveway, leaving the Ferrante estate in unaccustomed quiet.
The heavy velvet drapes of the Grand Hall had been drawn back, allowing warm sunlight to flood the marble corridors. Outside in the private terrace garden, birds chirped among the lemon trees and olive groves.
For the first time in four turbulent months, there were no emergency Council summons, no rival hit squads lurking along the perimeter, and no impending tribunals threatening the Ferrante name.
Nico sat opposite Mara at a small wrought-iron table on the sunlit terrace.
He wore a simple black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his dark eyes watching Mara as she slowly sipped a cup of warm chamomile tea.
Her colour was fully restored, a healthy, radiant glow gracing her cheeks, her hand resting comfortably over the curve of her stomach.
