Dusk Till Dawn

Radici e Ricordi

"Amore è così contorto da far impazzire chi lo prova, un labirinto di desideri e ossessioni da cui non c'è via d'uscita."

"Love is so twisted that it drives those who feel it insane, a labyrinth of desires and obsessions from which there is no escape."

The morning light filtered through the grand windows of the Moretti dining room, casting a warm glow on the marble floors and high-backed chairs. The table was long and elaborately set, but despite the grandeur, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

Freya sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the delicate patterns of her plate, carefully avoiding eye contact with the others at the table. Across from her sat her father, Domenico Moretti, a man whose presence dominated the room. His sharp eyes scanned the pages of the morning tabloid, the rustling of the paper the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

At the head of the table sat Matteo Montagne, her grandfather. Even in his old age, his reputation as a feared and influential man lingered, commanding respect from everyone, including Domenico. His grip on the cane beside him was firm, his eyes never wavering as he observed the room.

Margaret, Freya's mother, sat beside her, radiating a quiet beauty despite the tension. Freya often found solace in her mother's presence, though even that felt fragile here. She admired Margaret's grace, the way she managed to stay composed in a house where her father's temper often erupted.

"Your name's in the paper again," Domenico's voice broke the silence, cold and uninterested. He slid the tabloid across the table toward Freya, but didn't bother to look at her.

Freya hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the paper. She didn't need to look to know what it was about—the same thing they always wrote. Her latest public appearance at some charity event, her fashion sense, and now, rumors about her plans after finishing college. They liked to speculate about her future, throwing around baseless claims as if her life was merely entertainment for them.

"She looks good in that dress, don't you think?" Domenico asked sarcastically, his lips curling into a sneer. "At least you have that going for you."

Freya kept her eyes down, swallowing the retort that bubbled up inside her. There was no point. She had learned long ago that responding only fed his need for control. Instead, she glanced at her mother, who offered a gentle, sympathetic smile, as if to say, Stay strong.

Matteo finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "What are your plans after college, Freya?" he asked, though his tone made it clear this wasn't a question but a test. In his eyes, she was still a part of the grand plan, a pawn to be moved on the chessboard of their family's influence.

Freya shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I... haven't decided yet, Nonno," she said softly.

"Undecided," Domenico echoed mockingly, leaning back in his chair. "It seems you're undecided about a lot of things, Freya. Maybe it's time to stop playing dress-up and start thinking seriously about your role."

Her role. The same role that had been dictated since she was old enough to understand the weight of the Moretti name. Freya bit her lip, casting a glance toward her mother again. Margaret's eyes were filled with a quiet plea, a silent request for patience.

But Freya felt it—a longing, a burning desire to break free of the suffocating expectations. She adored her mother, loved her fiercely, but the walls of this house, the constant scrutiny, and the cruel remarks from her father and grandfather—they were unbearable.