When we arrived, the car had barely come to a complete stop before Liliana opened the door and stepped out with effortless grace. Dante's soldier held the door, eyes front, posture rigid. Dante followed right behind her, his attention already on her, as if I didn't exist. I got out last.
She was the first to walk up to Don Salvatore.
"Don Salvatore, happy birthday," she said with a warm smile, her voice carrying just the right amount of affection.
The old man's face lit up the moment he saw her. His eyes softened with unmistakable fondness, the kind he had never once shown me. His worn wooden rosary sat still in his lap, untouched. When his gaze shifted to the scroll in her hands, his expression grew even more pleased.
She carefully presented it, slowly unrolling the painting.
It was a longevity piece, intricate and elegant, every stroke deliberate and refined. The kind of gift that required time, thought, and understanding of the recipient.
It was obvious.
This wasn't her first time at the compound.
As for me, I stayed where I was, a few steps behind, with no intention of forcing myself into a place I didn't belong.
Don Salvatore had never liked me.