The car finally reaches the East Wing, our sanctuary.
The walls are obsidian, inlaid with gold veins that catch the moonlight. The entrance is a double door, carved with swirling patterns and studded with diamonds that sparkle like stars.
Inside, the air smells of lavender and wealth. The living room sprawls before us, its gold-and-white furniture draped in silk, a massive crystal chandelier casting rainbows across the room.
The dining room, with its obsidian table and gold chairs, could seat a small army. The kitchen gleams with black marble counters and gold appliances, though we rarely cook—our staff handles that.
The roof terrace, accessible by a spiral staircase, is a paradise of glass railings and plush loungers, overlooking the estate's glowing pools and gardens.
Our bedrooms are upstairs, three grand suites with four-poster beds, silk canopies, and walk-in closets bigger than most apartments.
One closet is shared, stuffed with designer clothes—suits, gowns, heels, bags, and swimming trunks for every occasion.
The other is for our grandparents, Matteo and Lucia, whose suite is down the hall.
A fourth bedroom, always locked, sits untouched, a silent presence we don't speak of.
The library, lined with leather-bound books and holographic displays, is our quiet retreat. The gym, with its mirrored walls and combat mats, smells of sweat and determination.
Two home offices—one for us, one for our grandparents—hum with the buzz of mafia business, their desks carved from obsidian.
The private theatre, with velvet seats and a massive screen, is where we escape into movies. The conservatory, filled with exotic plants and glass walls, feels like a jungle.
The sauna, massage room, and salon are our havens, scented with eucalyptus and rose. The outdoor pool, larger than the others, glows with underwater lights, its edge lined with gold tiles.
We step out of the car, our boots clicking on the obsidian driveway. Giovanni, our butler, waits at the door, his Silver bead steady, his smile warm. "Welcome home, ladies," he says, bowing slightly.
"Missed this place," Vittoria says, stretching her arms.
We nodded together, my eyes scanning the East Wing's glow. "Let's get ready for school. Academia di Stelle won't know what hit it."
Viviana smirks, her gold earrings flashing. "They never do."
We walk inside, our beads pulsing, the weight of our world settling around us. This is home, and we're ready to rule.
We step into the East Wing, our boots clicking on the obsidian floor, the sound echoing like a heartbeat.
The air smells of lavender and polished wood, a scent that wraps around us like a warm embrace.
Our black suits, still crisp from the jet, catch the glow of the chandelier overhead, its crystals scattering light like a thousand tiny stars.
Gold chains dangle from our wrists, glinting as we move, our Obsidian beads pulsing with that deep, molten red that marks us as Vionica's untouchables.
The entrance hall stretches wide, its walls inlaid with gold veins, the ceiling painted with swirling galaxies. This is our domain, the only place where we can breathe without the world watching.
Vittoria spins on her heel, her gold earrings flashing. "God, I missed this place. Look at that chandelier—Giovanni must've polished it to death."
We laugh, our voices blending into one. "He probably climbed up there himself," Viviana says, her lips twitching into a rare smile. "Poor man's got no life outside this mansion."
"Poor man?" I counter, raising an eyebrow. "He lives better than most Gold families."
We stride toward the living room, passing a massive gold-framed mirror that reflects our identical faces—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and that dangerous edge we can't shake.
The room sprawls before us, its white silk sofas piled with gold cushions, the obsidian coffee table gleaming under a vase of white roses.
Beyond it, glass doors lead to the conservatory, where exotic plants bloom under a glass dome, their leaves brushing the stars. We can hear the faint hum of the outdoor pool's lights, glowing like a sapphire in the night.
"Home," Vittoria sighs, flopping onto a sofa, her suit jacket creasing. "Think we can skip school and just live here forever?"
"Not a chance," Viviana says, nudging her with a boot. "Grandpa Matteo would drag us to Academia di Stelle himself."
We grin, the thought of our grandfather's stern face, sparking a shared memory. The East Wing is our fortress, but it's our grandparents who make it a home.