Silvia was the first to break the silence. Her voice carried that practiced softness, the kind that concealed a stiletto's edge. She moved toward me with the unhurried confidence of a woman who had already claimed her throne, each step deliberate, as if she were the true heir to this blood-soaked empire.
"Making the entire Family wait for you this long." She tilted her head, a gesture of mock concern. "Do you truly not understand the code, or have you convinced yourself that you stand above it?"
Behind her, the murmurs began—orchestrated, venomous.
"If the Don hadn't shown weakness all those years ago, she would never have been brought under this roof."
"Only Silvia has proven herself worthy of standing at Don Ettore's right hand."
"She contributes nothing. A ghost at our table."
The words fell like stones dropped into still water, each ripple calculated. At the head of the long mahogany table, Don Ettore Ashford and his wife Margaret sat in judgment, their silence more damning than any accusation. They watched me the way one watches an uninvited guest at a funeral—with barely concealed disdain and the patience of those who know the problem will soon resolve itself.