Casagrande Direct

"He’s late," Rosa murmured, casting a glance toward the heavy oak door.

Rosa didn’t look at the paper. She looked at the scratches on the table. "Do you know where this table came from, Leo?" Leo nodded. "Grandpa built it." Casagrande

"Five million," Elena whispered. "Leo, that changes everything." "He’s late," Rosa murmured, casting a glance toward

Leo Casagrande was currently a mile away, standing at the highest point of the north pasture. He was thirty-two, with his grandfather’s stubborn jawline and eyes that seemed to constantly search the horizon. In his hand, he crushed a dry clod of earth, watching the gray dust slip through his fingers. "Do you know where this table came from, Leo

For eighty years, the Casagrande family had worked this soil. They had weathered droughts, economic crashes, and the slow, relentless march of time that threatened to turn their fertile fields into suburban sprawl.

Leo looked at the contract, and then at the family surrounding him. The dust of the valley was in his lungs, and the love of his family was in his bones.