Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared at the ceiling feeling restless and unsettled.
The events from last night were eating at me, the images vivid in my mind — the dead man on the floor, the eerie calm with which Bruno had ordered his men to clean up the scene, the unnerving way Sofia held the gun.
I had to know what really happened. I couldn't keep living in this house, surrounded by secrets and lies, without understanding the danger that lay hidden beneath every polished surface and empty smile.
Just then, there was a soft knock on my door, and my maid, Elisa, stepped inside.
She was carrying fresh linens and a tray with my morning coffee, her expression as unreadable as always. But today, I couldn't let her remain silent and detached. Today, I needed answers.
"Elisa," I called, my voice softer than usual but edged with urgency.
She glanced up, startled by my tone, but quickly masked it with her usual reserve.
