Warm candlelight bounced off the crystal goblets in the small private dining room on the ground floor of the residential wing, illuminating a feast of roasted rosemary chicken, crusty stone-baked bread, and vintage Tuscan wine.
For the first time since Mara had stepped across the threshold of the Ferrante estate, the long mahogany table was not set for syndicate negotiations, map reviews, or emergency war councils.
There were no ledger breakdowns, no security manifests, and no armed guards hovering behind the chairs.
Seated around the table was the true inner circle of the Ferrante house: Nico and Mara at the head; Aunt Rosa; Luca; Gianni; and fourteen-year-old Matteo.
Aunt Rosa sat near the center, watching with warmth as Nico passed a plate of fresh pasta to Matteo.
