A soft chime echoes through the hall—Giovanni's signal for dinner. Our stomachs rumble, the jet's fancy tuna and figs long gone.
We head toward the dining room, our steps synchronised, a habit we've never broken.
The hallway is a gallery of wealth: gold-framed paintings of Vionica's coastline, obsidian sculptures of mythical beasts, and chandeliers that drip crystals like frozen rain.
Our beads pulse brighter, sensing our excitement. Dinner with Nonno Matteo and Nonna Lucia is always an event, a mix of warmth and strategy, like a chess game played over pasta.
"Do you think Nonna's cooked tonight?" Vittoria asks, her voice hopeful. "Her carbonara's better than any chef's."
Viviana snorts, adjusting her gold cufflinks. "Dream on. She's probably been plotting with Nonno all day. No time for cooking."
"Plotting what?" I ask, my tone teasing. "How to marry us off to some Diamond girls?"
We laugh, but there's a flicker of truth in it.
We've heard whispers of arranged matches, names like Isabella, Aurora, and Sofia floating through the mansion like ghosts.
We don't dwell on it—not yet. The dining room doors loom ahead, tall and obsidian, carved with vines and studded with diamonds that catch the light. We push them open, and the room unfolds like a palace.
The dining table is a slab of polished obsidian, long enough for twenty but set for five tonight.
Gold chairs with silk cushions line it, and a chandelier shaped like a constellation hangs above, its light soft and warm.
The walls are draped in gold silk, and a massive window overlooks the East Wing's pool, its water glowing under the moon.
Plates of gold-rimmed porcelain sit ready, flanked by crystal glasses and silver cutlery that sparkles like stars.
Nonno Matteo and Nonna Lucia are already there, their Obsidian beads glowing against their elegant clothes—Matteo in a charcoal suit, Lucia in a gold dress that shimmers like liquid sunlight. They smile, their faces lined with love and authority, and we feel that familiar tug of belonging.
"Girls!" Nonna calls, her voice warm as summer. "Come, sit. You're late."
"Blame the jet," Vittoria quips, sliding into a chair. "Or Marco's slow driving."
We laugh, settling around the table, our suits a stark contrast to the room's glow. Elena enters behind us, her Silver bead steady, her navy blazer crisp.
She stands near the door, hands clasped, her face calm but alert. She never sits with us during family dinners—it's her way, a quiet respect for our space.
The staff glides in, Bronze beads glowing faintly as they set down platters of food. The air fills with the scent of roasted lamb, garlic, rosemary potatoes, and fresh focaccia drizzled with olive oil.
A bowl of insalata mista—bright greens, cherry tomatoes, and shaved parmesan—sits beside crystal pitchers of sparkling water and red wine.
We dig in, our forks clinking against porcelain, the flavours bursting like a memory of our childhood summers in Vionica's countryside.
Nonno Matteo leans forward, his dark eyes sharp despite his age. "So, girls, ready for Academia di Stelle? It's a big year."
We exchange glances, our beads pulsing in sync. "Always ready," I say, cutting into the lamb. "The school's just a stage, Nonno. We'll steal the show."
Vittoria grins, twirling her fork. "Yeah, those Gold and Silver kids will trip over themselves trying to impress us. Same old game."
Nonna Lucia raises an eyebrow, her gold earrings glinting. "Don't underestimate them. The school's full of powerful families—royalty, mafia, tycoons. You'll need to stay sharp."
Viviana sips her wine, her gaze cool. "We're Vesperas. Sharp's our middle name."
We laugh, and Nonno chuckles, his deep voice rumbling like thunder. "That's my girls. But remember, power isn't just about beads. It's about control. The school's a battlefield—parties, galas, alliances. Play it right."
We nod, chewing thoughtfully. Elena shifts slightly by the door, her eyes scanning the room, always watching.
She's more than a secretary—she's our anchor, her loyalty as solid as the obsidian table. We catch her eye, and she offers a small smile, her Silver bead glowing softly.
"Think there'll be any new faces at school?" Vittoria asks, tearing a piece of focaccia. "Some Diamond kid trying to act big?"
Nonna's lips curve, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Oh, you'll see new faces. Just keep your eyes open."
We raise our eyebrows, sensing a secret, but we don't press. Nonna's always been good at dropping hints, letting us figure out the rest.
The food disappears quickly, our plates nearly empty, the room warm with laughter and the clink of glasses.
After dinner, we lean back in our chairs, full and content. The dining room feels alive, its gold silk walls glowing under the chandelier's light.
Elena remains standing, her posture straight, her tablet tucked under her arm. We've told her to sit a hundred times, but she insists on tradition—family dinners are for family, she says. We respect it, even if it feels old-fashioned.
Nonno clears his throat, his Obsidian bead pulsing. "The East Wing's ready for you, girls. Giovanni's been fussing over every detail—your bedrooms, the closets, the gym. Even the theatre's got new screens."
Vittoria perks up, her gold bracelet clinking. "New screens? Can we watch that new holo-film tonight? The one with the mafia heist?"
Viviana rolls her eyes. "You and your movies. I'd rather hit the gym. Been too long since we trained."
I smirk, nudging Viviana's arm. "Gym can wait. Let's check out the closets first. Bet there's new stuff in there—Dior, Gucci, maybe some Versace."
Nonna laughs, her gold dress shimmering. "You girls and your clothes. The shared closet's stocked, don't worry. Everything from gowns to swim trunks."
We grin, imagining the walk-in closet—a cavern of fashion, its racks lined with silk dresses, tailored suits, glittering heels, and leather bags.
The other closet, for Nonno and Nonna, is just as lavish, but ours is a playground. We share it, like we share everything, our tastes blending into one endless collection of luxury.
"Any surprises in the conservatory?" Viviana asks, her voice curious. "New plants?"
Nonno nods, his eyes twinkling. "A few. Orchids from Calyria, some glowing vines from the northern provinces. You'll see."
We exchange excited glances. The conservatory, with its glass walls and jungle of plants, is our escape, a place to breathe when the world feels too heavy.
The East Wing is full of such places—the library with its leather books, the sauna's cedar-scented steam, the massage room's soft lights, the roof terrace where we watch the stars.
Even the home offices, one for us and one for our grandparents, hum with purpose, their obsidian desks ready for whatever plans we'll hatch this year.