Chapter 125 – Daphne POV
The chandelier catches the amber evening light like a fistful of shattered stars, refracting gold onto the polished floor, the silverware, the glinting buttons on starched uniforms.
The Castellano dining hall is quiet—too quiet.
Breaths are held, throats tight, every twitch of movement broadcast like a scream.
It's funny. With all this money, all this power, you'd think the room would feel warm.
But it's cold. So cold.
The air is carved from tension, thick with perfume, sweat, fear, and the scent of veal in cream sauce cooling on untouched plates.
This is supposed to be dinner.
Instead, it feels like an execution.
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The room is a grand chamber of intimidation. The walls are adorned with oil paintings of Castellano ancestors glaring down like gods half-forgotten and fully feared. Their eyes follow you, even in death. Especially in death.
