Small things matter in rooms like this.
The air tightens as the doors close.
Someone clears his throat.
Another man smirks.
His gaze flicks to me, slow and assessing, and I feel the deliberate weight of it as he looks me over with open dismissal, as if I am an accessory Giovanni has brought to provoke reaction rather than a person with a pulse.
My husband notices. I know he does because his fingers tighten around mine just enough to be felt.
The man speaks before anyone else can stop him. “So,” he says, tone light, almost conversational, “this is her.”
Giovanni turns his head slowly, his expression calm in a way that makes my spine straighten.
“Yes,” he replies evenly. “This is my wife.”
A beat passes.
Another man leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “You could have sent her away for this.”
Giovanni’s mouth curves, faint and humourless. “Vèru. I could have,” he agrees. “But I did not.”
The smirk returns, sharper now. “That is not how things are usually done.”
Giovanni inclines his head slightly, as if considering the statement. “I keep hearing that, over and over. And my answerwill always be the same. That,” he says, voice unhurried, “is because I am no one’s version of usual. Find your way to accepting that before you do yourself a mischief.”
The room shifts, a barely-there rustle that nevertheless raises hairs on arms and napes.
I feel it, the recalibration, the way attention sharpens and calculations begin to rewrite themselves.
The dragon is rousing, and they best take heed.
Another voice cuts in, older, rougher. “You’re asking us to believe you would risk everything for sentiment.”
Giovanni’s gaze flicks to the speaker, dismissive in its precision. “I’m not asking you to believe anything,” he replies. “I’m simply telling you what is already true.”
The man who smirked earlier lets out a soft laugh. His eyes flick back to me, lingering, disrespectful. “And what,” he says, “does she bring to the table, exactly?”
Before Giovanni can answer, I do something very small.
I turn my head and I meet the man’s eyes. I don’t smile or speak. I simply look at him, steady and unflinching, and then I lace my fingers through Giovanni’s and lift his hand to my lap, settling it right there on my thigh with quiet, deliberate certainty.
The effect is immediate.
Giovanni’s breath changes and the room goes still. Stiller.
The man’s smile falters, not because I’ve intimidated him, but because Giovanni has by calling his bluff. All their bluffs. By letting them see the force of our combined power.
Don and Donna.
My husband stares down at our intertwined fingers for a long beat, then he turns back to the table, voice calm, almost bored. “You will not look at her like that again,” he says. “If you do, I will remove your eyes and replace them with someone who understands where to focus his attention.”
It’s not threat dressed as poetry. It’s just a statement of outcome.
The man swallows as another man laughs, sharp and uneasy.
And Giovanni continues as if nothing has happened. “I did not come here to ask for recognition or permission,” he says. “After your actions in my city, you deserve neither my respect nor my cooperation. So I came here to inform you of a decision.”
