The morning passed like it always did—slow, heavy, and full of unspoken tension. The house never really emptied. Men came and went, barking orders and hauling packages that I didn’t ask about. Every now and then, I’d hear Luca’s voice cutting through the noise, firm and controlled. It was his world, one I wasn’t welcome to question but couldn’t escape either.

I stayed in the nursery until Sofia woke up, her little hands reaching for me the second her eyes fluttered open. She didn’t know where she was growing up or what kind of man her father was. All she knew was the safety of my arms and the stuffed bunny she refused to sleep without.

“Good morning, my love,” I whispered, kissing her warm cheek. Her tiny giggle was the only thing that kept me going some days.

I carried her downstairs, avoiding the men stationed near the front door and the clink of glasses in the kitchen. They always looked at me like I was some sort of mystery they didn’t care to solve—a fixture of the house, like the expensive paintings on the walls or the marble staircase Luca had imported from Italy.

But today, something was off. The energy in the air was sharper, more hostile. The men’s voices were quieter but tense, like they were walking a tightrope. I glanced toward the dining room, where Luca sat at the head of the table with two men I didn’t recognize.

One of them was older, his graying hair slicked back and his suit perfectly tailored. He had the kind of calm that came with decades of violence. The other was younger, maybe mid-thirties, with a scar running down the side of his face that made him look more wolf than man.

They both turned their heads as I walked past, Sofia clutching my shirt. Luca didn’t even glance up, but I could feel the weight of his silence, like he was daring me to interrupt.

I didn’t. I just kept walking toward the kitchen, where the housekeeper, Rosa, was already fussing over breakfast.

“Signora,” she greeted me with a warm smile, her hands busy with a pot of coffee.