"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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"Mamma mia," Orazio's voice rings out, his words a melody of delight, an unabashed celebration of Aunt Luna's creation. The pasta, rich and decadent, seduces the senses. Each bite, a symphony of flavors woven into the very fabric of the evening. There's a magic in the sauce—thick and velvety, clinging to the strands with a sensual persistence—as though it were made by hands that knew the depth of love and labor, a rare moment of brilliance from Aunt Luna. I can't help but admire the way she has turned the mundane into something divine tonight. She's a master of chaos in the kitchen, but when the stars align, her touch is nothing short of a culinary masterpiece.
I glance at my family, their faces a canvas of joy, the table set like a scene from a forgotten era, one where tradition mingles with laughter, and time seems to slow, just a little. The clink of forks against porcelain, the hushed exchanges of familial love, all blend into a comforting lullaby that wraps itself around us. Steam rises from the pasta in gentle waves, filling the room with an inviting, heady fragrance that heightens the warmth of the gathering.
Around me, my cousins, uncles, and aunts laugh in that easy way only family can. It's a sound that carries the weight of years shared in silence and in stories, in bickering and love. Their words float, sometimes lost in the air, sometimes sharp and quick, like the crack of a whip. Yet it's all part of the fabric of home. But as my eyes sweep over the scene, my attention lingers elsewhere. On Luca. His gaze flickers repeatedly toward the door, as if he's awaiting the arrival of something—or someone—whose absence he feels keenly. It's subtle, the way his brow furrows slightly, how his fingers drum softly on his wine glass, betraying an anxious energy.
Before I can voice my curiosity, a sound slices through the chatter, sharp and insistent: the rhythmic click of heels against the cool marble floor. The kind of sound that demands attention, poised and commanding.
The door creaks open, and my gaze shifts, drawn by a presence that fills the room with a force as subtle as it is undeniable. Viviana Valentino steps into the dining room, and for a moment, time seems to linger, caught in the sheer elegance of her entrance.
Her dress is the color of delicate roses in early spring—a soft, innocent pink that clings to her form with gentle affection, the fabric caressing her curves with a tenderness that seems almost intentional. It hugs her waist before flaring out in delicate waves, the hem swaying with the rhythm of her steps, teasing the air around her like a playful whisper. At her middle, a white bow sits, its laces tied with a bow so perfect it could have been sewn by the hand of a poet, adding an effortless charm that contrasts with the sharp sophistication of her demeanor.
