The villa's grand halls had always been filled with silence, the kind that made every footstep echo like a confession. But tonight the silence felt different. It was taut, like a string stretched too tightly, ready to snap with the slightest pull. Isla felt it in her bones as she moved through the dimly lit corridors. The guards nodded as she passed, but their eyes did not linger. Some of them avoided her gaze entirely.
Something was changing.
At dinner, Dante had sat at the head of the table, glass in hand, eyes burning with a restless fire. He drank more than usual, wine spilling onto the white tablecloth as he slammed his glass down after each toast. His men had cheered, but the sound was hollow, like actors forced to applaud a scene they despised. Isla sat quietly at his side, hands folded in her lap, watching every strained smile, every guarded glance exchanged between soldiers who once swore absolute loyalty.
