Fifty-one

The grand ballroom of the De Rosario estate was a sight to behold. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the marble floors, reflecting off the polished surfaces of gold-trimmed columns. Ornate tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes of power and prestige, a nod to the family's long and storied history. The room was filled with the elite—men in sharp suits and women draped in luxurious gowns, their laughter and chatter mingling with the soft strains of classical music played by a live orchestra.

Santo stood near the entrance, his eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced vigilance of a man who had seen too much in his life to ever truly relax. He was dressed in his finest, a midnight black suit that fit him like a glove, but his expression was anything but at ease. There was a tension in his jaw, a sharpness in his gaze that hinted at the unease brewing beneath the surface.

Silvio. The name had been on his mind all night, a dark cloud over an otherwise glittering even