The sun pours gently through the wide arched windows of the Romano-Sinclair dining room, lighting the space in soft amber tones. The long oak table is set immaculately, gleaming silver and warm croissants on ceramic trays.
Leila sits quietly near one end, dressed simply but neatly, sipping her tea. Isabelle, seated beside her, chats softly about food and Milanese art. The warmth of her voice is calming.
At the other end of the table, Elias, Raffaele, and Kai speak in hushed tones — their voices low, fast, and unmistakably in Italian.
They're careful not to let the conversation carry, but Leila occasionally glances their way — sensing the underlying weight in the room without grasping the words.
Raffaele leans forward slightly, voice gravel-edged.
"Hai controllato il carico arrivato da Palermo?"
"Did you check the shipment that arrived from Palermo?"
Kai, sipping his espresso, nods.
"Sì, Capo. Tutto è stato ricevuto, ma i turchi stanno diventando... impazienti."
"Yes, boss. Everything was received, but the Turks are getting… impatient."
Elias's jaw tenses, but his tone remains even.
"Falli aspettare. Nessuno detta il ritmo alla famiglia Sinclair."
"Let them wait. No one sets the pace for the Sinclair family."
Raffaele raises a brow, glancing briefly down the table toward Leila, whose gaze is turned politely away.
"E lei? Sta diventando una distrazione?"
"And her? Is she becoming a distraction?"
Elias doesn't answer at once.
His eyes rest on Leila for the briefest moment — the way she listens intently to Isabelle, always respectful, always composed.
"No." he finally says.
"Ma lei... è diversa."
"No. But she… she's different."
Kai watches him, reading between the silences.
"Non siamo mai stati uomini da 'diverso,' Elias."
"We've never been the kind of men who chase 'different,' Elias."
Elias sets down his cup quietly.
"Forse è ora di cambiare."
"Maybe it's time we did."
A pause.
Raffaele narrows his eyes ever so slightly — not disapproving, not yet. Just observant.
Then he leans back, voice calm but final.
"Solo se riesci a proteggere entrambi i mondi, figlio mio."
"Only if you can protect both worlds, my son."
The conversation fades into small talk and quiet clinks of silverware. Leila remains unaware of the nature of the storm being navigated just a few seats away.
But something in the air has shifted.
Something unsaid, yet undeniable.
Leila presses the rim of her teacup gently to her lips, though it's long gone lukewarm. Across the table, Isabelle's voice continues in soft, elegant tones — something about a summer art exhibit in Florence. Leila listens attentively, offering quiet nods and the occasional smile.
But her eyes flicker to Elias.
Something's… different.
He sits composed, as always — perfectly tailored suit, posture relaxed but authoritative. Yet, there's a tension behind his eyes today. A faint furrow between his brows that hadn't been there before. His jaw shifts ever so slightly when he thinks no one's watching.
She lowers her gaze quickly when his eyes brush past her — not quite landing, but skimming. He hasn't said a word to her this morning. Not that he usually says much… but today feels even quieter.
Not cold.
Just… reserved.
Too aware.
Leila tries to dismiss it. Maybe he's just busy. Men like him — people like him — carry the weight of empires. Of expectations. Of names like Sinclair.
But still, she feels it: the air between them is not the same as it was yesterday.
She remembers his hand steadying her in the hospital. The way he watched her with something unreadable, something she didn't know how to name. But here — in daylight, with company and conversation — he's become a closed book again.
She returns to her croissant, but the bite turns dry in her mouth.
Isabelle leans toward her with a kind smile. "I hope you feel strong enough today, my dear. You look much better."
Leila nods. "I do. Thank you. I… I'm really grateful to you for letting me stay here."
The older woman's hand rests over hers briefly. "You're always welcome here. We don't take kindness lightly in this house."
Across the table, Elias's fork stills for half a second at that.
Just half a second.
But she catches it.
And for the first time in a long time, Leila wonders what it must be like to carry so much and still stay silent. To live in a world that expects strength, but never softness.
She looks up — her eyes brushing Elias's.
He doesn't look away this time.
And neither does she.