Marcello sat alone in the dimly lit study of his private quarters, the heavy oak door closed against the distant hum of the estate's security detail. The room smelled of aged leather, polished wood, and the faint trace of cigar smoke that never quite left the curtains.
A single desk lamp cast a warm pool of light across the surface, illuminating the framed portrait he held in his hands.
It was an old photograph, taken when Angelica was barely seven years old. She stood beside him in a simple white dress, her dark curls tied with a ribbon, one small hand clutching his sleeve while the other pointed excitedly at something off-camera. Marcello's younger self smiled down at her with unguarded affection, his arm protectively around her shoulders. The image was crisp despite its age, the colors slightly faded but the emotion preserved perfectly.
