Chapter 378 - 378: Marcello's Wound.
Marcello sat alone in the dimly lit study of his private quarters, the heavy oak door closed against the distant hum of the estate's security detail. The room smelled of aged leather, polished wood, and the faint trace of cigar smoke that never quite left the curtains.
A single desk lamp cast a warm pool of light across the surface, illuminating the framed portrait he held in his hands.
It was an old photograph, taken when Angelica was barely seven years old. She stood beside him in a simple white dress, her dark curls tied with a ribbon, one small hand clutching his sleeve while the other pointed excitedly at something off-camera. Marcello's younger self smiled down at her with unguarded affection, his arm protectively around her shoulders. The image was crisp despite its age, the colors slightly faded but the emotion preserved perfectly.
He stared at it for a long time, thumb tracing the edge of the silver frame. Every time he looked at this picture, the same thought surfaced: things were never as they seemed. The world he had inherited, the empire built on blood, the carefully constructed lies that held everything together — none of it matched the innocent joy captured in that frozen moment. Yet the portrait gave him something precious in these dark days. It gave him hope that one day he might see his daughter again. Alive and whole. Not as a ghost haunting his memories, but as the woman she had become.
There was still a chance Kyle was lying. The man had every reason to spin tales if it bought him time or favor. Marcello knew that. He wasn't naïve. But the truth was, he needed this thread of possibility, even if it proved false. A string of hope — false hope, perhaps — wasn't so bad when it was the only thing giving his life purpose anymore. Without it, the weight of everything else would crush him.
Marcello leaned back in the leather chair, eyes drifting to the large window that overlooked the manicured grounds. The estate sprawled under the night sky, floodlights cutting sharp lines across the lawns. He had always wondered what it would have been like if he had taken over the family earlier, before the forced transition after his father's sudden death. If he had been given time to prepare properly, to learn the nuances without the chaos of grief and power struggles crashing down at once. Maybe Angelica would never have been pulled into this world the way she had. Maybe the fractures in their family would never have deepened into chasms.
A soft sigh escaped him. He set the portrait gently on the desk, still facing him, and rubbed his temples.
"Kyle… Who are you?" Marcello muttered under his breath, the words barely audible even in the quiet room. The question had been circling in his mind for hours now. Kyle possessed information no outsider should have, moved with a confidence that suggested like he was used to this lifestyle.
He was more than a mere informant or opportunist. Marcello had suspected as much from their first meeting, but the suspicion had only grown sharper with time.
A firm knock echoed against the heavy door.
Marcello tilted his head slightly, listening. He had two trusted men stationed just outside — discreet, loyal, and armed. With a calm voice he instructed, "Let them in."
The door opened with a soft click. Marcello didn't turn immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on the window, watching the reflection of the room in the dark glass.
The visitor stopped a respectful distance away.
"Isabeau?" Marcello said, finally shifting his eyes to her. She stood there in an elegant dark coat, posture straight, expression composed but carrying the faint tension of someone who knew she was walking a delicate line.
"You are still here? I would think you would have flown back home by now. Is there a reason you are lingering in the country?"
His tone was cool, almost dismissive, laced with the subtle warning that he had little patience for prolonged presence from foreign associates right now. The way he spoke made it clear he expected her to state her business and leave.
Isabeau studied him carefully. The lack of outright hostility or accusation told her everything she needed to know: Kyle had not yet revealed her involvement. That bought her time, but she still had to tread lightly.
She cleared her throat softly. "I came to discuss the plans for my family's operations. We intend to expand further within our own borders — new routes, new partnerships. I wanted to ensure there would be no… complications from your side, given recent developments."
Marcello listened without interrupting, his fingers idly tapping once against the arm of the chair. Usually he would have probed deeper — asking specifics about routes, timelines, potential overlaps with his own interests, weighing risks and benefits with the meticulous attention that had kept the family dominant for years. But tonight his mind was elsewhere, pulled between the portrait on the desk and the gnawing questions about Kyle.
He didn't care about what she did. Not tonight. The realization surprised even him, but the exhaustion of carrying multiple crises left no room for micromanaging foreign expansions.
After a long pause, Marcello simply said, "You can do whatever you want."
The words hung in the air, flat and final. No conditions. No warnings. No follow-up questions.
She opened her mouth to respond, perhaps to confirm or press for clarity, but Marcello had already turned his gaze back toward the window, signaling the conversation was over. His posture made it clear he had no further interest in prolonging the meeting.
Isabeau lingered for only a moment longer, then offered a small, respectful nod. "Thank you. I'll keep you informed if anything changes on our end."
She turned and left as quietly as she had entered, the door clicking shut behind her.
Marcello remained seated, the portrait of young Angelica still watching him from the desk. The faint hope it represented felt both fragile and necessary. False or not, it was the only light he had left in the gathering dark.