Isabella sat at her father's grave, the cold stone beneath her fingers offering no comfort. The world around her was eerily quiet, as if it, too, was mourning the loss of Don Marino. The sky above was overcast, threatening rain, but the drops held back, as if waiting for her tears to fall first. She stared at the name etched into the gravestone, her father’s name, and traced it with trembling fingers.
Everything felt wrong— everything was wrong. She could still hear his voice in her mind, calling her "Piccola," telling her everything would be alright. But everything was far from alright. She had lost him, and with him, she felt she was losing herself. The weight of the Marino name, the power, and the expectations had crushed her. She was supposed to be strong, unbreakable, but all she fe
