Chapter 92.

 The room was dim, filled with the thick scent of cigarettes and regret. Ignazio sat slumped in the plush leather chair, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind wracked with turmoil. The dim glow of the overhead chandelier cast long shadows across his face, accentuating the dark circles beneath his reddened eyes. His stubble had grown, rough against his jaw, a testament to the days he had spent in this same position—drinking, smoking, waiting.  Three days.  Three fucking days without Isabella.   Three days without the reason he existed.   Three days of standing outside Johnson’s house, knocking, pleading, dropping to his knees like a desperate man stripped of his pride—only to be met with silence. Three days of torment, knowing she was inside, breathing, existing, but refusing to see him.  It was a kind of death, only slower, more agonizing.  Ignazio took another slow drag from his cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly as he exhaled, watching the smoke curl toward the ceilin