She manages the introduction with surprising grace, though I feel her pulse racing where my thumb strokes her wrist. Danteand Ana arrive next, my mute brother signing something that makes Ana smile softly. She's holding their daughter Antonia, the baby's dark eyes alert despite the late hour.
"The Rosetti men aren't as bad as they look," Ana tells my wife, genuine warmth in her voice. "They tend to grow on you."
Luca and Faith enter, my brother's pale eyes finding mine with unspoken amusement. Faith's hand rests on her swollen belly, six months along, looking like she stepped from a Sunday school rather than into a mafia dining room.
"The newest Mrs.Rosetti," Luca drawls, circling us with predatory interest. "How delightful."
Nico appears in the doorway, standing at attention even in civilian clothes, the soldier he'll always be. Then Sofia glides in, blonde perfection wrapped in cream silk, her smile sharp as the blade I know she carries.
Each family introduction carries weight, establishing hierarchy, and I feel my possessive pride swell as I present my wife to each of them. "My wife," I say with each introduction, the words like ownership on my tongue.
This was supposed to be simple. A business arrangement. But watching her navigate their calculating stares, something feral claws at my chest.
"We're so thrilled Alessandro finally settled down," Sofia coos, air-kissing with precision. "We were starting to worry he'd die alone surrounded by his watches."
"Now, now," I say, guiding my wife to her chair. "No need to share all my secrets on her first family dinner."
The chair I pull out for her is to my right, close enough that I can touch her whenever I want. Close enough that everyone knows she's mine. The family takes their seats, years of hierarchy determining placement.
"We stayed away to give you both time," Marco says, unfolding his napkin with precise movements. "But Dante and Ana are considering finding their own place soon anyway."
Dante signs something, and Ana translates while adjusting Antonia on her lap: "He means we want more privacy with the baby."
"Understandable," I reply, my hand finding my wife's thigh under the table. She jumps slightly, then forces herself still. "Though you'll be missed."
Conversation turns briefly toward business. Marco's briefing this morning included troubling news: Volkov shipping movements along our northern routes. The Russians have been quiet for over a decade, ever since Luca killed one of Viktor Volkov's sons during that Moretti meeting-turned-massacre. But quiet isn't the same as gone. Sofia still flinches when anyone mentions that night, though she claims not to remember the details.
"What about the Volkov situation?" Nico asks, and Sofia's wine glass clatters against her plate. Everyone pretends not to notice. "Our sources say Alexei's been making inquiries. Asking about old business. The Moretti massacre."
It’s Ana’s turn to flinch at the mention of the night that killed her father, and baby Antonia starts to cry.
"That was eleven years ago," Marco says flatly. "Mikhail Volkov is dead and buried."
"His brother isn't." Nico's jaw tightens. "And Russians have long memories.”
The first course arrives, some elegant soup that Maria insists will impress. My wife holds her spoon with careful precision, but I notice the slight struggle with formal etiquette, the way she watches Ana from the corner of her eye to copy the proper form. Her perfume changes when she's nervous. The vanilla turns sharp, metallic.
"So," Sofia begins, twirling her wine glass with deliberate casualness, "tell us about Switzerland. Those finishing schools must be fascinating."
My wife freezes for just a heartbeat before recovering. "It was… educational."
"I imagine so." Sofia's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Which one did you attend? Le Rosey? Aiglon?"
"It was very exclusive. They valued privacy above all else."
Marco saves her inadvertently, turning the conversation to business. "The Hewson technology patents are exactly what we need to modernize operations. Digital territory is the future."
"Assuming the family delivers as promised," Luca adds, watching her with those unsettling pale eyes.
"They will," I say firmly, my grip tightening on her thigh. "Won't they, cara mia?"
She nods, but stays silent, her lips pressed together in a thin line. I can feel her trembling under my hand, the question clearly beyond her knowledge.
"I'm sure the Hewsons will honor their agreements," Marco says, filling the awkward pause. "They understand the consequences of failing us."
"How wonderful," Sofia purrs, leaning forward. "Though I must say, your etiquette is quite… unique. Did they teach that particular way of managing the courses in Switzerland? You seem to struggle with the formal progression."
The words hang in the air like a blade. I watch my wife's fingers clutch her napkin, her struggle with etiquette now highlighted for everyone to see. Around us, the family goes still, everyone recognizing Sofia's probing for what it is: an interrogation.
