The next morning at breakfast, the atmosphere was tense. The dining room, usually filled with the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the chatter of family, felt stifled under the weight of the conversation at hand. The long mahogany table was set with an array of breakfast items: golden croissants, platters of fruit, and steaming bowls of porridge, but Isabella could barely bring herself to touch her food.
Don Marino sat at the head of the table, his brows furrowed as he spoke with Dominic, who was seated to his right. The discussion was serious, their voices low but intense. Isabella’s mother, Elena, sat quietly beside her husband, listening intently as she sipped her tea, her gaze flicking between the two men. Isabella, on the other hand, sat at the far end, absently picking at her
