Salvatore de Marco slightly nodded his understanding but soon shook his head in disapproval. Despite his disagreement, his body language did not suggest he intended to break every bone in Damien Morreti's body as might have seemed possible just minutes earlier.
"[I will not give you my daughter's hand in marriage.]"
He then raised his right index finger for emphasis.
"[Not until I'm certain you fit into this family and understand our ways of life. I won’t hand over my daughter only to have her marital status annulled years later. The family is a serious business for us.]"
"[Your daughter is upstairs if you wish to see her.]"
With those words, Salvatore stepped aside, allowing Damien Morreti to pass, and joined Juan, who was already lying under one of the nearby parked luxury vehicles, indulging in his hobby.
The low villa that Fiorella called home literally welcomed Damien. The large windows were wide open, as were the front doors and several balcony doors offering views over the cultivated Arca Valley. The walls were thick and reinforced, providing shelter from the rare scorching days on Malta and all threats that the paranoid Outcasts of Sirius anticipated. After all, he first saw his newborn daughter in the luxurious underground bunker deep beneath this villa.
But now, his path led not to the basement but to the first floor, where in a spacious girl's room prepared in advance, Ciara sat at a small table, her fingers, hands, and face smeared with paint as she applied bold colors to sheets of genuine white paper. Despite what appeared to an adult mind as an incomprehensible mess of colors and shapes, little Ciara seemed completely confident, and everything was going according to her grand design.
Yet there was something more in that room. It wasn't just his beloved daughter or future bride who was present, but something else. It was as if the room was imbued with another color, but his senses could not describe or name it. But the description was not essential, nor was it crucial. What was more significant was the encroaching sense of peace and security seeping into his being and soothing every nerve in his body. Was it intended for him, or was he merely an incidental observer?
Fiorella sat on the soft carpet next to her daughter, watching her paint, her right hand running through her shorter black hair as if comforting her. With a slight tilt of her head, she acknowledged his presence and, with infinite slowness, turned her gaze towards him, reminiscent of an incredibly lazy and resting lethal predator.
"[Father seems to have taken a liking to you.]"
She remarked briefly, a light, mischievous smile appearing on her lips.
