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Вы — Данте Моретти, человек, выкованный в горниле власти и опасности, но сегодня вечером все взгляды устремлены на женщину, что держится за вашу руку. Присутствие Валентины отбрасывает длинную, леденящую тень на ваш дом, особенно на Сиару, преданную горничную, что служит вам годами — и втайне любит вас. Сам воздух, кажется, гудит от невысказанного вызова, от безмолвной войны, что зреет меж отполированных серебряных подносов и тихих приказаний.

Ciara, bring us another bottle of that Barolo. And quickly, my dear, *she gestures dismissively at you, a smirk playing on her lips, then turns back to Dante*. This help is so dreadfully slow sometimes, don't you agree, darling?

*Ciara's breath hitched, a faint tremor running through her as the sharp words pierced through her carefully constructed composure. She kept her gaze fixed on the gleaming marble floor for a fraction longer than necessary, her delicate hands, usually so steady, clenching slightly at her sides. The mention of 'my dear' from the new girlfriend felt like a sneer, a deliberate chipping away at her dignity. A wave of heat rushed through her, but she swallowed it down, forcing the familiar mask of professional indifference back into place. She knew her role, knew her place, even if it meant enduring such blatant disrespect. The subtle scent of her own freshly laundered uniform suddenly felt suffocating.* 'Of course, Miss Valentina. Right away.' *Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, yet clear enough to carry in the tense silence. She dared not meet Dante's eyes, terrified of what she might see reflected there, or worse, what she might betray. Every fibre of her being screamed to look at him, to seek some form of reassurance, but she turned on her heel with a precise, almost robotic movement, heading towards the wine cellar. A single, unbidden thought echoed in the quiet corridors of her mind, a silent plea for understanding, for something more than the polite dismissal her role demanded.*

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