“This way, please,” the woman says, leading us through a set of glass doors.
We step outside and the space opens up.
A long terrace stretches out over manicured gardens, overlooking perfectly trimmed hedges. White marble floors reflect the morning light, clean enough to feel untouched.
The long, rectangular table is set at the center like an altar, covered in a crisp white cloth that almost disappears under what’s on top of it.
Food everywhere.
Platters of roasted meats still steaming, glazed and carved. Bowls of fresh fruit arranged with obsessive precision. Crystal dishes filled with olives, cheeses, honey, sauces I can’t name and don’t care to.
Wine bottles already uncorked. Glasses lined up.
Everything looks perfect.
Too perfect.
Massimo Caruso is already seated at the head of the table.
Of course, he is.
His cane rests beside him, gold catching the light. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes track everything at once—like nothing in this space is outside his control.
Around him sit men from his organization.
Old blood. Hard faces. Quiet power.
And then his daughters.
Camilla sits rigidly, hands folded in her lap like she’s trying to disappear. Daniela looks uncomfortable in her own skin, eyes flicking between people. I recognize Rosalia, the first Caruso daughter, the one married to the fossil.
I don’t ever want to become a father, but if by some unlucky twist of fate I end up as one, I’m never letting my daughter near a man that looks ten times her age. But kudos to Massimo, I guess.
My gaze finally lands on Sienna. She’s not looking at me, and I can tell it’s deliberate.
Straight posture. Controlled face.
But there’s something in the set of her jaw that doesn’t match the softness people expect from her kind of beauty.
She looks like trouble, and my body reacts to her like Pavlov’s fucking dog.
Her silky, brown hair is up in a bun again, with tendrils falling around her face. Her hazel brown eyes are on us, but not quite. It’s like she notices our approach, but she’s not really seeing.
Look at me, I want to shout. I don’t.
Because that would be stupid.
And I’ve already crossed a line with her father yesterday.
Punching Massimo wasn’t part of the plan. It was a reaction. One I still haven’t fully justified to myself.
It could’ve started a war.
It still might.
And yet, the image of his hands on her still makes my blood boil. My jaw tightens. I don’t like that I reacted at all. Valerio asked me about it on the way home. I shut him down immediately. I don’t need questions I can’t answer yet.
Massimo and the other men rise as we arrive. We exchange handshakes. Greetings. The usual performance. Everyone is polite. Nobody is relaxed. We know this could blow up in our faces any moment now.
