The dining room glowed warmly under soft candlelight, the long oak table polished until it gleamed like honey.
Crystal glasses sparkled, catching the gentle flames and throwing dancing reflections across the crisp white tablecloth.
Everything looked perfect—maybe a little too perfect, like someone had spent way too much time arranging each fork and knife.
Don Luciano sat at the head of the table with his usual quiet authority, the kind that made people straighten their spines without him saying a word.
The servants had already retreated with their characteristic silent efficiency, leaving behind only the soft scrape of chairs and the gentle hiss of candles burning steadily.
Felix walked in first, his fingers still loosely wrapped around Matteo's wrist—a casual touch that had become as natural as breathing.
Across the table, Victor was already sprawled in his chair, chin propped in his hand, wearing that mischievous grin that usually meant trouble.
