A teenage boy, no older than fifteen with a scar cutting through his eyebrow, froze at the sight of her.
"Signora... mi dispiace, non sapevo..." he stammered, bowing his head in immediate, terrified respect.
Anastasia didn't wait. She couldn't understand him, and she didn't want him to see the guilt written on her face.
She brushed past him, and glided back through the halls until she found reached the bedroom. She paced the room, staring at the paper over and over again.
Something was off, even more so that her late mother had somehow simmered into Matteo's corridors.
Her mother was killed at their home in LA by gunmen that her father wronged. Not that it was what she was told, but it was the rumor that she heard amongst the domestic staff.
It was a cold night, years ago, her freshman year in college, and she returned home from the dormitory because her body thought she would be unsafe outside of the house.
