The next morning, the house was too quiet.

Almost like it was holding its breath.

I dragged myself downstairs, every step heavier than the last.

In the dining room, the table was already set — spotless, like always.

White porcelain plates. Crystal glasses. Silver cutlery shining like little weapons.

Father sat at the head of the table, reading the paper like last night hadn’t even happened.

Mother sipped her coffee in silence, perfectly composed, wearing pearls and a sharp expression.

I slid into my chair without a word, picking at the edge of the napkin.

The maid poured my coffee.

The clink of the cup against the saucer sounded deafening.

No one spoke.

No one looked at me.

We just ate in stiff, heavy silence — forks scraping quietly, chairs creaking, the tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the hall the only sound.

It was like last night had been scrubbed clean from the record.

Erased. Forgotten. Except it wasn’t. Not really.

I could feel it thrumming under my skin — the fight, the fury, the shame.

The way Father’s words had sunk in and rotted overnight.

Liability.

The word tasted like poison.

I sipped my coffee to hide the tremble in my hands, swallowing the lump in my throat.

And still —

No one spoke.

Like nothing had happened.

Like I hadn’t set a bomb off inside our perfect little empire.

But I knew better.

The blast was still coming.

It was just a matter of when.

Just as I pushed a piece of toast around my plate, not really tasting it, Mother stood up from the table — graceful, cold, distant.

"I have errands to run," she said smoothly, gathering her clutch without looking at anyone.

Father gave her a short nod, and just like that, she swept out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the marble.

I thought maybe we’d all just go back to pretending.

But then —

Father folded his newspaper with a crisp snap and turned his gaze onto Mikael.

My older brother froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

"You spoke to Moretti yesterday?" Father asked, voice calm but heavy.

Mikael set his fork down carefully. "Yes."

"And?" Father pressed, leaning back in his chair, studying him like a man deciding whether to kill or forgive.

Mikael cleared his throat.

"The Sicilian breach... it was an inside job," he said carefully. "They got gutted from their own servers outward."

"I know that," Father said sharply. "I'm asking who did it."

The silence thickened.

I kept my head down, pretending to butter my toast, but every nerve was tuned to the conversation.

Mikael hesitated just a second too long.

Father’s fingers tapped once, twice against his coffee cup — the only sound in the room.

Finally, Mikael said, "Moretti... he suspects someone close to us helped."

He lowered his voice. "Someone young. Skilled. Someone who knew how to hide their footprints."

Father's mouth pressed into a hard line.

"And who would that be?" he asked quietly.

Mikael didn’t answer right away.

I felt his glance flick toward me — quick, almost invisible — before he looked back down at his plate.

"I don't know yet," he lied.

Father leaned back in his chair, a slow, dangerous smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

"Find out," he said. "Before Romano does."

My blood ran cold.