Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 8

**The Unplaceable End by Austen**
**Chapter 8**

**Forks and Faults**

**Aurora’s POV**

As I step into the dining room, the atmosphere feels thick with unspoken words. All seven of them are already seated, their gazes flicking toward me like the sharp edges of a blade, but a heavy silence blankets the air. No one utters a single word, as if the act of speaking would shatter some fragile truce.

The dining table stretches out before me, an enormous expanse that feels entirely disproportionate to the quietness of our family. It feels as though I’m intruding on a normalcy that I’ve somehow disrupted. I can’t shake the feeling that my tardiness has turned me into the unwelcome guest in my own home.

“Sit,” Andrei commands, gesturing toward the vacant chair nestled between Leon and Nico.

Of course, just my luck to be sandwiched between them.

I nod, a stiff motion that feels more like a concession than a greeting, and shuffle over to the chair. As I slide into the space between them, I avoid eye contact, focusing instead on the tablecloth, my posture curving inward as if I could somehow shrink away from the scrutiny. My hands fold neatly in my lap, fingers intertwined, while my eyes dart around, searching for any escape from this suffocating atmosphere. Years of experience have taught me how to blend into the background, to become the kind of invisible that is born from learning that being seen often leads to pain.

Raphael’s gaze lands on me, and though he remains silent, I can feel the weight of his scrutiny. His brow furrows slightly, as if he perceives something that eludes the others. Andrei tracks my movements with a watchful eye but chooses not to voice his thoughts.

Jace lounges in his chair, arms crossed defiantly, while Luka taps away on his phone, seemingly oblivious to the tension. Matteo doesn’t bother to look up from his screen, lost in whatever digital world has captivated him.

Nico, sitting beside me, snorts derisively. “Took you long enough.”

Leon remains silent, but I can sense the tautness in his posture, a live wire ready to snap. A tray of food is set before me—pasta, garlic bread, a fresh salad, and something warm and creamy that I can’t quite identify. I can’t help but stare at it, the sight of the food twisting my stomach not with hunger, but with a sense of foreboding.

Tentatively, I reach for the fork, my hand trembling slightly. Raphael’s gaze is unyielding, too intense, too quiet. After a few reluctant bites, I lower the fork, the food suddenly feeling like an insurmountable mountain.

“I swear, she doesn’t eat anything,” Jace mutters, his voice dripping with disdain as he jabs his fork into his plate. “What is she, anorexic?”

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