Dawn had barely broken, the sky beyond my window still holding that gray-blue chill that preceded winter storms. I sat at the small table in my quarters, pressing a short blade against a whetstone, adjusting the angle with each stroke. The metal sang against stone—a dull, grating sound that filled the silence like a heartbeat.
When the door opened without so much as a knock, I did not lift my head.
Giorgio stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit cut to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. The signet ring of the Corleone heir gleamed on his right hand. He looked every inch the future Don—prepared for a full day of ceremonies, sit-downs, and the formal presentation of his bride to the Family.
The presence he carried was still forceful. The kind of presence that made lesser men step aside, that silenced rooms and commanded attention.
It no longer stirred anything in me.
"It's time," he said. "We meet with the Family representatives first, then proceed directly to my parents for the formal blessing."
As if reading from a schedule carved in stone long before I had any say in the matter.