I drain my champagne, irritated by her implications. "I don't need relationship advice from my little sister."
"Someone has to give it to you." She pats my arm. "You've been alone too long, fratello."
Before I can respond, something catches my eye across the room. Zoe has returned from the restroom, but she's not alone. She's standing near one of the pillars, laughing with a man I don't recognize. He's leaning toward her, saying something that makes her smile wider than I've seen all day.
I feel my jaw tighten. "Who the fuck is that?"
Lucrezia follows my gaze. "I don't know. Not one of our guests."
I watch as the stranger places a familiar hand on Zoe's arm, letting it linger there. She doesn't pull away.
"Excuse me," I mutter, setting down my glass.
I move through the crowd, my eyes fixed on them. As I get closer, I can see the man better—tall, perhaps in his early thirties. Zoe's saying something to him, her expression animated in a way I haven't seen yet.
My blood heats as I approach. Whoever this prick is, he's getting entirely too comfortable with her.
Getting closer, I catch fragments of their conversation. Something about Florence and a mishap at the Uffizi Gallery. Her hand touches his arm now, a casual gesture that looks too fucking comfortable.
"...completely mortified," the man says, "but apparently it happens more often than you'd think."
Zoe laughs again, her head tilting back slightly, exposing the elegant line of her throat. "I can't believe I never heard this story before."
I approach from behind her, and the man notices me first. His smile falters for just a second before he recovers, straightening his posture.
Zoe senses my presence and turns. When she sees me, her expression shifts—not to fear or caution, but to something playful, almost challenging. A glint in her eyes I don't recognize. Don't like.
"Ah, there you are," she says, her voice light. "I was just catching up with an old friend."
The man extends his hand. "Diego Navarro. Congratulations on your marriage."
I ignore his hand. "I was wandering what's so funny."
Diego's hand slowly drops back to his side. An awkward silence falls between us.
"Diego was telling me about when we were in Florence," Zoe explains, that playful look still in her eyes. "He studied abroad the same semester I did and he works for my father."
"Is that right?" I ask.
Diego nods, clearly reading the danger in my tone. "Yes, sir. Security detail."
"Security?" I raise an eyebrow. "Interesting. I don't recall seeing you at any of our meetings."
"I generally handle Mr. Easton's personal matters," Diego says, choosing his words carefully.
"Including my wife's?"
Diego clears his throat. "I've known Zoe for years. We're old friends. I was simply congratulating her."
I smile, the kind that never reaches my eyes. "Well, now you've done that. And this is our wedding reception, so you'll understand if I want to spend time with my wife."
CHAPTER NINE
The limo glides through Manhattan's streets, silent as a tomb despite the faint sounds of New York nightlife filtering through the windows.
Damiano sits across from me, not beside me. His eyes fixed on something outside the window. He hasn't spoken a single word since we left the reception. Not even a goodbye to our guests. Just a swift exit, his hand gripping my elbow a little too tightly as he guided me to the car.
All because of Diego.
