ADRIAN
The Romano estate was quiet when we arrived. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of old wounds waiting to be reopened.
Isabella walked beside me, chin high, shoulders squared, her hand gripping mine tightly. Vito followed behind us, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. He looked calm, but I knew him well enough to see the tension in his jaw.
Inside the study, Isabella’s father and uncle were already waiting. The air was thick with expectation, pride, and something darker — the weight of a legacy that had been fractured for decades.
Her father stood first.
“Adrian,” he said. “We appreciate you calling this meeting.”
I nodded. “This concerns all of us.”
Isabella stepped forward. “I’m staying.”
Her father frowned. “Isabella—”
“I’m staying,” she repeated, voice s
