The words don’t make sense at first. Or rather, they make sense individually but not together. Lunch. Friendship. People wanting my company for reasons that have nothing to do with obligation or pity.
Liam’s expression shifts to confusion, then concern. He takes a small step backward, clearly misreading my silence.
“I should probably get back to the others,” he starts to say.
“Wait!” The word comes out sharper than I intended, making him pause in the doorway. “I’m sorry, I just...” I struggle to find the right words, my hands twisting nervously in front of me. “I’m not used to people wanting to make friends.”
The truth of that statement hits like a slap in the face. All my life, the only attention I’ve received has been negative. Disapproval from family, concern from doctors, fear from strangers who sensed something dangerous underneath my careful facade. The idea that someone might actually want to spend time with me, just for the pleasure of my company...
Liam’s face softens with understanding. “You’ll get used to it in no time at all,” he says simply. “Trust me.”
And somehow, I believe him.
This dinner is everything I dreamed it would be.
The food is perfection, each course timed to flow seamlessly into the next. The wine pairings are inspired, the conversation flows like music, and everyone seems genuinely happy to be here. To be celebrating Carlo and me, our love, our future together.
I watch from my position by the head of the table as Molly tells an elaborate story involving a mishap with hair dye that has everyone laughing. Dario contributes dry observations that make the story even funnier. Nicolo and Liam exchange the kind of fond looks that speak of deep contentment.
And Carlo... Carlo watches me watching them, his dark eyes warm with love and approval. Like he’s as pleased with my success as a host as I am.
This is everything I ever wanted. Not just the elegant dinner party, though that’s lovely. But this feeling of belonging. Of being part of something larger than myself. Of having people who choose to spend their evening in my company not because they have to, but because they want to.
“Carlo,” Dario says, raising his wineglass with mock solemnity, “I have to say, this dinner is absolutely incredible. This is all clearly Ginni’s work, you couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.”
The words turn the room dark and cold. I don’t understand the English phrase, I’ve never heard it before, but I understand the tone. I understand that Dario, Carlo’s boss, a powerful and dangerous man, has just questioned my husband’s competence in front of a room full of people.
Something dark and violent unfurls in my chest.
Because Carlo is brilliant. Carlo is capable and strong and absolutely worthy of respect. And no one, no matter how powerful they are, gets to speak about him with such casual dismissiveness and put his reputation in jeopardy.
The knife is in my hand before I consciously decide to reach for it. Not the chisel knife that’s laid out ready for the cheese course, but one of the sharp blades for the penultimate main course service. The weight of it feels comfortable, familiar, like an extension of my own hand.
I’m halfway to my feet, the blade angled toward Dario’s smirking face, when Carlo’s hand covers mine.
“Menace,” he says quietly, his voice carrying just enough warning to pierce through the red haze clouding my vision. “How about you don’t stab my boss.”
The word ‘boss’ penetrates where nothing else could. Dario is the Ajello heir. He’s going to be The Don one day. Stabbing him might not help Carlo’s career at all.
And maybe Dario isn’t actually attacking Carlo, he’s simply expressing appreciation for my work. Perhaps Carlo isn’t being diminished, he’s being celebrated in a way I don’t understand.
I blink, suddenly aware of the silence that’s fallen over the table. Everyone is staring at me with expressions ranging from alarm to fascination. Even Dante looks impressed, which is probably not a good sign.
“It will ruin the dinner party,” Carlo adds conversationally.
The practical consideration is what finally breaks through my protective fury. He’s right. Stabbing someone would absolutely ruin the lovely evening I’ve worked so hard to create.
I take a deep breath and release my grip on the knife, letting it clatter back onto the table with what feels like enormous self-control.
“More wine, anyone?” I ask brightly, as if nothing at all unusual has just happened.
Dario immediately extends his glass, his expression shifting from wary to amused. “Please. And I apologize for the poor phrasing. It’s just a light-hearted English expression that means someone couldn’t organize the simplest thing. I was joking. No insult to Carlo was intended.”
“None taken,” I reply smoothly, though I’m filing away this new cultural information for future reference.
“Though I got to admit I appreciate having such a devoted protector,” Carlo says with something that might be a proud and indulgent smile. Whatever it is, it makes my heart flutter.
“You’ve got some fire there, kid,” Molly grins, clearly delighted by the whole display despite the fact I nearly threatened his man. “I like that. Shows proper loyalty.”
