The air in Ismeralda's estate didn't just smell like tobacco, it smelled like fear and expensive perfume... the scent of a storm held back by sheer force of desperation.
Ismeralda sat at a table, flanked by two representatives of the northern syndicates.
The men were restless, their eyes darting around the house.
"The Don is getting old," the first man muttered, leaning into the couch.
"The pact was simple... the girl dies, the bloodline is closed, and we divide the territories. Instead, he let his son bring a Castellano into the D'Amico bed. He's making a mockery of the Interdetto."
Ismeralda swirled a glass of vintage red, her eyes fixed on the driveway outside.
"Lorenzo didn't lose his nerve. He lost control of his dog. Matteo hasn't just kept her, he has claimed her. He thinks because he put a ring on her finger, she belongs to him."
"We would rather see the girl in dead than in a D'Amico bedroom," the second man spat.
