The jet descends, the city of Luminara unfolding like a map of light below us. Skyscrapers gleam with holographic billboards, and the streets pulse with neon.
Our mansion lies on the city's outskirts, a sprawling estate that makes even Luminara's towers look small.
The jet lands smoothly on our private airstrip, a sleek stretch of obsidian pavement lined with gold lights.
We step out, our black suits catching the autumn breeze, our gold jewellery glinting under the setting sun. Elena follows, her tablet tucked under her arm, her Silver bead steady and calm.
Our driver, Marco, waits by a black Rolls-Royce Boatail, its curves as sharp as our suits.
He's a broad man with a Bronze bead, his face lined with loyalty rather than age. "Welcome home, ladies," he says, opening the car doors with a bow.
We slide into the leather seats, the car smelling of polish and power. Marco starts the engine, and we begin the drive to the mansion, the city fading into rolling hills and manicured forests.
The Vespera estate is a world apart, a fortress of wealth and secrecy. As we approach, the gates—tall, wrought iron, studded with diamonds—swing open, revealing the mansion's four wings, each a masterpiece of design.
"Home sweet home," Vittoria murmurs, pressing her face to the window. Her gold bracelet clinks against the glass, a soft, musical sound.
I lean forward, watching the estate unfold. "Let's see if Giovanni's kept the place in order."
Viviana snorts. "The butler? He'd polish the stars if we asked."
We laugh again, our voices blending like a song. The car winds through the estate, and we brace ourselves for the familiar sight of our world, the only place where we truly belong.
The road curves past the West Wing first, its glass walls reflecting the golden sunset. This is the guest wing, a palace for visitors who think they're important.
The lower floor, for the so-called "unimportant" guests, has sleek bedrooms with silk sheets and small wardrobes, functional but luxurious.
The middle floor, for those with some status, boasts larger suites, each with a private balcony overlooking the estate's fountains.
The upper floor, reserved for VIPs, has rooms that rival our own, marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and bathrooms with gold-plated fixtures.
The West Wing's garage, packed with guest cars, gleams with Ferraris and Lamborghinis, though none match our East Wing's Bugatti La Voiture Noire or Pagani Zonda.
The wing's outdoor pool shimmers under fairy lights, its water glowing faintly from embedded crystals.
A sauna and massage room sit nearby, their glass doors etched with constellations. The library, stuffed with rare books, smells of leather and ink, while the gym's mirrored walls reflect the latest equipment.
Meeting rooms, with obsidian tables and holographic screens, hum with the promise of deals and secrets.
The salon, dining room, and living room are all gold and crystal, designed to impress. A roof terrace, lined with glowing lanterns, offers views of Luminara's skyline.
"Look at that pool," Vittoria says, her eyes glinting. "Bet the guests will be fighting to swim there."
I smirk. "Let them fight. They'll never see the East Wing's pool."
Viviana's gaze flicks to the terrace. "Wonder who'll be staying here this year. Some Gold kid trying to impress us?"
We chuckle, the car gliding past the West Wing's grandeur. It's beautiful, but it's not home. Not yet.
The road bends toward the South Wing, where our cousins, nephews, and nieces stay when they visit.
It's a mirror of the West Wing in style but warmer, more lived-in. The bedrooms are spacious, with velvet curtains and diamond-encrusted lamps.
The gym hums with energy, its walls lined with mirrors and weights. The kitchen smells of fresh bread and spices, a nod to our Italian roots.
The outdoor pool, smaller than the West Wing's but just as stunning, ripples under the evening sky, surrounded by rose gardens.
The sauna and massage area are cosy, with cedar walls and soft lighting. The library, packed with family journals and novels, feels like a secret we share with our kin.
The dining room, with its long obsidian table, has hosted countless family feasts, and the roof terrace, dotted with fire pits, is where we've laughed under the stars.
The garage holds cars for our relatives—sleek Maseratis and Porsches, but nothing as rare as our own.
Next, we pass the North Wing, the staff's domain. It's simpler but no less elegant, with private rooms for maids, cleaners, drivers, and bodyguards.
Each room has a bathroom with marble tiles, a small luxury for those who serve us. The dining area, with a long wooden table, smells of coffee and fresh linen.
The sauna and massage room mirror the others but feel more practical, built for relaxation after long shifts.
The outdoor pool, surrounded by ivy-covered walls, is a quiet escape for the staff. We catch a glimpse of a maid crossing the lawn, her Bronze bead glowing faintly, and we nod in silent acknowledgement.
"They work hard," Viviana says, her voice softer than usual.
"They'd better," I reply, but there's no venom in it. We respect loyalty, and the North Wing hums with it.