The following morning felt like stepping into a theater where the stage was already rigged to collapse. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger’s—pale, tired, but masked with the calm, subservient expression that had kept me alive in the Bellini mansion for months.

The dining hall was a cavern of opulence. Crystal chandeliers cast flickering light over silver platters and men in expensive suits who held the city’s secrets in their pockets. Bianca sat at the head of the table, looking like a queen who had already conquered the throne. She was laughing, her voice a tinkling melody that masked the rot beneath.

I stood in the corner, near the shadows, holding the communication board as if it were a shield. Donna Elena sat in her wheelchair, a splash of pale blue against the dark wood of the table. She was motionless, an observer in a room full of noise.

Nico sat opposite Bianca. He hadn't touched his wine. His eyes were fixed on the center of the table, his posture tense.

"To the Bellini legacy," one of the guests toasted, lifting a glass. "And to the woman who will ensure its future."

They all turned to look at Bianca. She beamed, her hand resting gracefully on her throat. "I am just honored to be part of this family. Elena has been such a... guiding light."

My blood boiled. I looked at Donna Elena. She didn't react, but I saw the way her fingers curled into her palms, sharp and unforgiving.

"Sofia," Nico said suddenly, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife.

The room fell quiet. Every head turned toward me.

"Yes, Don Bellini?" I said, my voice steady.

"My mother has been quiet all evening. Does she have any thoughts on the toast?"

Bianca’s smile stiffened, though she kept it in place. "Oh, Nico, she’s exhausted. Let her rest."

"I didn't ask you, Bianca," Nico said, not moving his gaze from me. "Sofia?"

I stepped forward. The weight of the world felt like it was resting on my shoulders. I stood behind Donna Elena’s chair, the board resting on her lap. Bianca watched me, her eyes daring me to speak. I saw her hand dip beneath the table—a warning. I knew she had people in the room, guards disguised as waiters, watching for any sign of betrayal.

I leaned down. "Donna Elena, would you like to share a thought with your son?"

She looked up at me. There was a spark of defiance in her eyes that I hadn't seen before. She reached for the pen.

Her hand moved across the board. The scratching of the pen was the only sound in the room.

The future is built on truth, not gold.

I translated it aloud, my voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling. A few guests chuckled nervously. Bianca laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "She always was poetic, wasn't she?"

Nico stood. "It’s not poetry, Bianca. It’s a warning."

"Nico, sit down," she snapped, losing her composure for a fraction of a second. "You’re making a scene."

"I'm making a change," he replied.

He walked around the table, his eyes locked onto mine. "Sofia, tell her I am ready to listen. Tell her that if there is anything she needs to say—anything at all—that this room is the safest place for it to be heard."

Bianca surged to her feet. "This is enough! The staff, take her out. She’s overexcited."

The "waiters" moved. I felt the threat in the air—the sudden, dangerous shift. But then, a loud thud echoed from the foyer. The heavy iron doors slammed shut. Nico’s men had moved in.

"No one leaves," Nico said.

The room erupted. Guests stood, chairs scraping against the marble. Bianca’s face drained of color. She looked around, realizing she was no longer the one in control.