The Romano mansion breathed uneasily. Its walls, polished and cold, reflected the restless movement of shadows, the clatter of feet on marble echoing like anxious whispers. The chandeliers overhead trembled as if in sympathy with the family gathered below, their light spilling across faces drawn tight with worry.
The grand study, usually a place of calm calculation, where decisions were made like chess moves on a board, was anything but calm. Papers sat strewn across the mahogany table, the remnants of reports, messages, and notes half-read, half-ignored. The air smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old leather, but beneath it ran a tension thicker than any perfume could mask.
