Chapter 4 ''Embers of a Perfect Evening''

The fire crackled and hissed in the cozy dining room, casting a warm, flickering light over the contented faces of Maxwell, Matthew, and Isabelle. A delicious dinner, fresh from the sea, had been cooked to perfection, and the trio were now relaxed in each other's company, basking in the golden afterglow of a perfect evening.

Maxwell, ever the joker, was regaling his companions with tales of the sea, embellishing his adventures to elicit laughs and playful gasps.

Mateo, sipping on a glass of local wine, couldn't help but chortle at his father's antics, his soft laughter filling the room. Isabelle, too, had a smile on her face, her bright eyes sparkling with mirth.

As the laughter died down, Maxwell leaned back, a contemplative look in his eyes. "You know," he began, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "it's moments like these that make me feel truly alive."

Isabelle nodded, her expression softening. "I couldn't agree more, darling.

"It's hard to believe," Isabelle continued, "that just a few months ago, I was stuck in New York City, surrounded by skyscrapers and suffocating air. And now, look at us-here, in the heart of Italy, with nothing but the sound of the sea and the stars for company."

Maxwell shifted in his seat, his gaze falling on his pregnant wife and son, a feeling of utter satisfaction rising in his chest.

"You two have something special here, you know that? A bond that few people ever get to experience. I'm just glad I could be here to witness it." Those were the usual remarks of the inhabitants of the town whenever he took his wife strolling.

He smiled, his eyes reflecting the firelight.

Isabelle glanced at Mateo by the fire, his eyelids drooping with sleep. She turned to Maxwell, a gentle smile on her lips. "Max, I think it's time for Matteo and I to turn in for the night," she said softly, leaning over to smooth the boy's hair. "He's had a long day, and he needs his rest."

Maxwell nodded, returning Isabelle's smile. "Of course. Go on, then. I'll make sure he's tucked in." He stood and stretched his legs, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

Isabelle and Matteo said their goodnights to Maxwell, the little boy stumbling slightly as he was led up the creaky staircase. When they were out of earshot, Maxwell poured himself another glass of wine.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone and dialed Mr. Brown's number. It rang twice before the grizzled voice of his contractor came through the line.

"Maxwell, how are you, my boy?" Mr. Brown said with a gruff, but affectionate, tone.

"So, Maxwell," Mr. Brown continued, his voice becoming more urgent, "have you discovered anything new in your investigation? You know, if there's even a sliver of evidence that points to the Bryson family or their associates, we need to know."

Maxwell shifted uncomfortably, the strain of the investigation weighing on him. "Look, Mr. Brown, I'm doing everything in my power to find the people responsible for your family's deaths," he said, his voice tight with frustration.

"But it's not easy."

The Brysons and their associates are slippery," Maxwell continued, his words tinged with irritation. "They've covered their tracks well, and they've got enough money and power to buy silence and influence. I need a little more time to be sure of my findings."

Mr. Brown's voice was grave. "Maxwell, you've got to find something. You've got to bring these people to justice. For my family's sake. And for every other person they've hurt."

Maxwell fell silent for a moment, the weight of the situation bearing down on him like a physical burden.

"I know, Mr. Brown," Maxwell said, his voice quiet. "Believe me, I'm doing everything I can."

The silence stretched on, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

Finally, Maxwell spoke again. "Listen, I'm going to be in Italy for a little while longer. Maybe another week or so. But I'll keep digging, and I'll make sure I've got solid evidence before I come back."

Mr. Brown grunted, then sighed on the other end of the line telling Maxwell all he needed to know.

As Maxwell hung up the phone, he let out a heavy sigh, sinking into his chair as if it were weighted with lead. The weight of Mr. Brown's tragedy, the horror of his loss, felt almost tangible in the quiet dining room.

Maxwell's mind couldn't help but stray to Isabelle and Matteo. His family, his light in the darkness. How could he go on without them? How could he survive the grief that Mr. Brown was living every day?

He closed his eyes, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as if to steady himself.

The fire cast shadows on the walls, the flickering light seemingly mocking the turmoil in Maxwell's heart. He tried to push the images from his mind. Brown's family had suffered a terrible death. And for many nights, the images haunted him in his sleep, waking him with the resolve each morning to find the killer.

And now, with the emergence of the Bryson family sitting atop his list of suspects, Maxwell couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He had promised Mr. Brown he would find justice for his family, but what if he couldn't? What if he failed? What if he was no match against the Bryson's and what secrets will be unravelled in the end?

With the thoughts lingering in his mind, he walked to his room. Isabelle was already asleep. He took a moment to admire her under the moonlight. He wanted their baby to be a girl, a pretty angel that looked every bit like her mother.

He lay on the bed gently, and for a while, he listened to the soft snore of Isabelle, a sign that she was still very much with him.