Giulia turns the lock. The click echoes through the foyer.
I exhale. Finally. Away from the cemetery. Away from the watching eyes. Away from the weight of public grief.
I turn toward the living room.
And freeze.
Dante stands in the hallway. Vittoria beside him.
They're holding papers.
White sheets. Black marker. Words scrawled across them in urgent capital letters.
Dante's free hand rises to his lips.
Don't make a sound.
My heart stutters.
Vittoria's paper reads: LEAVE YOUR PHONES IN THE LIVING ROOM.
Dante's paper reads: GET IN THE DINING ROOM. NOW.
I don't understand.
I don't understand any of this.
But the look on Dante's face—the tension in his jaw, the steel in his eyes—tells me not to question. Not to speak. Not to do anything except obey.
Fear crawls up my spine.
Something is wrong.
Something is very, very wrong.
Bruno moves first. He pulls his phone from his pocket. Sets it on the coffee table. Walks toward the dining room without a word.
Antonella follows. Then Nico. Then Kristen. Pietro. Nora. Carmela. Valentino.
I watch them go. Silent. Obedient. Trusting whatever Dante and Vittoria have planned.
Sophia hasn't moved.
She stands in the foyer. Swaying slightly. Her face is pale. Her eyes are red. She looks like she might collapse at any moment.
Giulia takes her arm. Guides her toward the living room. Takes her phone. Sets it beside the others.
I add mine to the pile.
My hands are shaking.
Dante catches my eye. His expression is unreadable. But something flickers there. Something that looks almost like an apology.
What is happening?
I follow the others into the dining room.
The long table stretches before us. Empty chairs. Untouched place settings. The remnants of a family that used to gather here for Sunday dinners.
