E M E L I A N A
The clang of cutlery and the inaudible sounds of chewing as well as the soft playing classical music playing in the background is all that can be heard in the dining room. I stick my knife and fork into my lasagna and cut a piece out of it, bringing it to my mouth and chewing quietly, glancing up and looking around at the 6 people seated at the table with me.
To say that this 'lunch' is awkward would be an understatement. The tension in the air is so thick and I can tell that the 5 of them are seconds away from ripping each other to shreds.
I glance first at Don Fernando Liacari who is seated at the head of the table, casually eating his food, not even being affected by the thick atmosphere of hatred. He looks up at me just as my eyes land on him, tilting his head slight
