The morning after the storm carried a deceptive calm. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the DeLuca estate, painting golden streaks across the marble floor. Outside, the gardens sparkled, fresh and clean after the downpour, as if the world itself wanted to pretend that nothing sinister had ever touched this place. But inside, Aria knew better.
She sat at the breakfast table, untouched coffee cooling beside her, eyes lost in the newspaper spread before her. The headline screamed: RUMORS OF A NEW HEIR IN THE DE LUCA EMPIRE. There was no name, no photo, just whispers. Whispers that had already found their way into every corner of the city.
Luca entered quietly, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, every inch the Don again except for the weariness in his eyes. "You saw it."
"Yes," Aria said, her voice flat. "And I suppose everyone else has, too."
