Chapter 1 - The Broken Bowl and the Hidden Witness
The kitchen air grew so thick with hostility that even the guards at the service entrance shifted uncomfortably. Marcela Viscari stood over me, her sharp eyes flashing with suppressed malice, waiting for me to break. At eight months pregnant, my physical exhaustion was a weapon she knew how to wield.
"Kneel and pick it up, Elena," Marcela commanded, her voice ringing like a bell through the marble-tiled room. "It’s time you learned that a Viscari name doesn't exempt you from chores."
I didn't move. My hand rested protectively against my swollen stomach, feeling our daughter give a sharp, defensive kick. I looked past Marcela toward the east corridor, where the shadows deepened near the mudroom.
Something caught my eye.
A shadow shifted against the doorframe. A pair of custom leather shoes—expensive, dust-covered, and unmistakably familiar—stood motionless on the dark oak floor.
Dante Viscari.
He was supposed to be in Sicily negotiating port logistics for another eleven days. But here he stood, shrouded in the dim light of the hallway, wearing his travel-worn charcoal overcoat, his jaw clenched so hard the muscle feathered. His dark eyes weren't looking at Marcela. They were fixed entirely on the bowl of soup pushed away from my hands, and the shattered ceramic tiles waiting for my knees.
May you like
Marcela, sensing the sudden silence behind her, turned her head.
The blood drained entirely from her face.
