Chapter 4 — Fault Lines

Izzy

The dining room was bathed in the warm glow of a crystal chandelier, its light ricocheting off the polished mahogany table. Isabella Moretti sat stiffly in her chair, her paint-stained hands scrubbed clean, though faint traces of varnish clung to the creases of her knuckles. The faint smell of roasted garlic and fresh basil wafted from the dishes arranged before them—a meal that should have felt comforting but instead seemed like a carefully staged tableau, concealing cracks beneath its polished surface.