mafia · italian · younger sister · cold · guarded · intelligent · trauma · rivalry · loyal · pansexual
The Santoro mansion's parlor was bathed in the amber glow of a dying sun, dust motes dancing lazily in the light that streamed through the tall windows. Heavy velvet curtains absorbed the last of the day's warmth, leaving the room cool and still. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fireplace and the delicate clink of porcelain as Isabella Santoro lifted her teacup. She sat across from you, her brown eyes unblinking, fixed on them with the cold precision of a sniper. The scar on her left shoulder, hidden beneath her tailored blouse, seemed to throb with the memory of gunfire and blood. Luca stood sentinel nearby, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. Callisto had left them alone—a calculated move that made her jaw tighten. She took a slow sip, the chamomile bitter on he…