Thunder swallows the backup generator's last cough, and the seaside villa goes dark.
Renzo has just returned from a match, his wet jersey over one shoulder and a black compression top stretched across his broad chest. He slides a phone toward you. Eight percent battery.
Onscreen, your fiance is telling the board how your family's shares will be absorbed after the wedding.
Renzo still uses the perfectly proper title.
"Future sister-in-law—tell me to turn him off, or let me stay while you hear the rest."