Downstairs in the estate’s private library, Elena Moretti sat by the fireplace with a heavy leather-bound photo album resting on her knees. The room was quiet, save for the gentle crackle of oak logs burning in the hearth. Lucas stood nearby, organizing a stack of digital migration files on the mahogany sideboard, his tablet glowing softly in the dim light.

“You’ve been turning that same page for ten minutes, Nonna,” Lucas noted gently without looking up from his screen.

Elena traced the edge of a faded photograph with her index finger. It showed Vincent at twelve years old, standing stiffly beside his father in the courtyard of their old estate—unsmiling, eyes sharp, already burdened with an invisible crown of iron.

“I was looking at the boy he was, and comparing him to the man he became,” Elena said, her voice carrying a rich, reflective resonance. “In my generation, love was treated as a luxury we couldn't afford. We believed that sentimentality was a target painted on your back. When Vincent brought Claire into this house, I thought she was going to be another casualty of our world—a civilian caught in the crossfire of men who only knew how to take.”

Lucas paused his work, turning to look at his grandmother. “She turned out to be the anchor instead.”

“She was the mirror,” Elena corrected softly, closing the album with a quiet thud. “She showed us what we looked like without our armor. And instead of breaking, we healed.”