Dante strode in, his movements sharp and deliberate.

The faint scent of aged leather and wood polish lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of whiskey from the decanter on the side table.

It used to be his father’s favourite room where they had many discussions, but at the moment it felt stifling to him.

He would rather be holding Annabelle in his arms at that moment anyway.

Antonia stood near the window, her back straight, hands folded in front of her as though she were bracing herself.

The dim light filtering through the curtained window cast long shadows across her poised frame, but Dante wasn’t fooled.

There...