The chandeliers glittered above the dining hall, their crystal droplets casting fractured light over the long mahogany table. The room was vast, its ceilings painted with scenes of saints and martyrs, though the eyes of those painted figures seemed dim in comparison to the watchful stares of the Moretti family. The golden glow of candlelight danced along polished silver cutlery, every glint exaggerated by the silence pressing over the room.
The butler moved with the quiet precision of a man who understood his life depended on not disturbing the air. His gloved hands trembled just faintly as he refilled a glass of red wine, careful not to let a single drop stain the white linen tablecloth. Behind him, two younger waiters shuffled with dishes, their faces pale and their movements stiff. No one spoke to them. No one had to. The servants understood—silence was survival in this house.
At the head of the table sat an empty chair. The high-backed seat of carved oak and leather loomed like a throne, and though vacant, it commanded the room as if occupied by an unseen sovereign. Every glance from the family inevitably returned to it, if only for a fleeting second, before darting away as if burned.
It was Vincenzo's chair.
They all knew he would not be joining them yet. He had said so himself. Eat without me. Don't wait. His orders, spoken earlier in the day with the calm certainty of a man whose will needed no explanation, had carried the same weight as a law. And so they obeyed.
But obedience did not erase unease.
---
Clara Moretti, seated closest to the head, held her fork delicately but had barely touched her food. The mother's dark hair, streaked faintly with gray, framed a face where beauty and exhaustion warred constantly. Her eyes—deep, searching—were fixed on her plate, but her ears caught every shuffle, every scrape, every whisper. She spoke finally, her voice soft, attempting to pierce the heaviness.
"Eat, all of you. The food will grow cold."
The command was maternal, but her tone carried a stiffness, as though she herself needed convincing. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass, and she forced her lips into a faint smile that fooled no one.
Across the table, Isabella, her eldest daughter, straightened her posture, dabbing her mouth with her napkin though she had barely taken a bite. Isabella's beauty was regal, sharp—like the porcelain vases lining the hallways, cold and perfect. She lifted her chin, letting her eyes sweep briefly across her younger siblings before speaking.
"Mother is right. Don't waste time fidgeting." Her words carried that brittle edge, an attempt at control, though her fingers drummed restlessly against the table's polished surface.
Her gaze landed briefly on Lucia, who sat two chairs away, restless as ever.
Lucia leaned back, then forward again, unable to sit still. Seventeen and fiery, her eyes darted constantly toward the great double doors at the end of the hall, as though half-expecting them to burst open. Her fork clattered as she set it down.
"What's the point?" she muttered. "We all know who we're waiting for—even if we pretend we're not."
"Lucia." Isabella's voice sharpened.
"What? I only said what we're all thinking," Lucia shot back, her tone defiant. Her hands curled into fists in her lap, out of sight. Beneath her anger was something quieter, something she would never admit aloud—a pull, a longing for the very presence she claimed to resent.
---
On the opposite side of the table, Antonio and Nick exchanged a smirk. The boys—barely men—carried themselves with a cocky arrogance, shoulders squared, voices low as they whispered to each other.
"He said don't wait," Antonio murmured, his tone dismissive, "which means he's busy. Always is."
Nick tilted his head, grin widening. "Busy making sure no one in this city forgets his name."
Both boys laughed under their breath, the sound quickly silenced by the sharp scrape of a knife against porcelain. Marco, seated near them, had moved deliberately, his expression hard.
"Show some respect," Marco said, his deep voice even but firm. No trace of the timid man he had once been lingered in him now. He cut his meat with slow precision, his calmness carrying an authority of its own.
Beside him, Rafael sipped his wine, eyes hooded. He leaned slightly toward Marco, his words measured. "Let them speak. They'll learn soon enough that talk carries a price."
The boys went quiet, but their grins lingered.
---
At the far end of the table, Anna and Elena, the aunts, whispered softly to one another. Their words carried only fragments—complaints about seasoning, comments about the children—but their glances kept straying to the empty chair. Their whispers were not about the food at all.
Seated not far from them were Luca and Enzo, Vincenzo's right and left hands, his shadows given flesh. Both men sat with effortless composure, cigars smoldering faintly between their fingers. They did not join the conversation, did not break the silence. Their eyes, sharp and unwavering, observed everything. Where Luca's gaze was calm, calculating, Enzo's carried a dangerous edge, cold and ruthless. The smoke curled lazily upward, blurring the line between presence and absence, control and menace.
Cathy, younger, leaned forward slightly, her elbows brushing the edge of the table. Her lips curled in an amused smile, as though she alone found entertainment in the suffocating tension. Her eyes glinted, thriving on his dark shadow that pressed against the walls of the room.
Meanwhile, Frank adjusted his glasses, his gaze flicking between his relatives. He noted the small cracks in composure, the shifts of tone, the whispers. Klein, beside him, mirrored that watchfulness, though where Frank weighed morality, Klein cataloged patterns. Both understood that every silence at this table spoke louder than words.
And then there was Mia.
The little girl clutched the fork in her hand tightly against her chest, her small face partially hidden by its worn fabric. She watched the adults with wide, unblinking eyes, sensing the unease without grasping its meaning. Her legs swung slightly under the table, the rhythm out of sync with the oppressive silence.
---
Outside, the rain had begun, faint drops tapping against the tall windows. The guards patrolling the grounds adjusted their coats but never lowered their vigilance. Rifles slung across their shoulders, eyes scanning the night—they were as much a part of the estate as the stone lions guarding the gates.
Inside, the air thickened further. The family ate in mechanical rhythm, each bite an act of performance, not appetite. The only sound was the faint clink of cutlery and the low hum of the television mounted on the far wall.
At first, the screen was ignored. It played the usual evening news—political updates, market fluctuations, local weather. The anchor's voice was a dull drone against the backdrop of forced civility. A few glanced at it idly before returning to their plates.
Then came the shift.
A bright red banner slashed across the bottom of the screen: BREAKING NEWS.
The anchor's voice sharpened, urgent. "Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt regular programming for a developing story from the city center…"
Every fork froze mid-air. The waiters paused in their tracks. Even the butler, midway through pouring wine, faltered, his hand trembling just slightly.
The family turned, almost as one, toward the massive screen.
The image shifted to shaky handheld footage, blurred at first, the voice of a passerby audible over the wind. The picture steadied, zooming in. The location became clear.
a Wearhouse full of body's