“Well,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe we can get some wine and popcorn and watch a movie or something.”
“Wine and popcorn?” His brow lifts like I’ve just suggested something absurd.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I tease. “It’s tradition. You’ll see.”
He chuckles, that low sound rumbling through his chest as he tugs me a little closer.
“Fine,cara. But if I’m giving up truffles and caviar for yourpopcorn,you’d better make it worth my while.”
“Oh, I will,” I promise, my voice softer than silk but weighted with something far more dangerous than flirtation.
“I have no doubt,” he says, his gaze dipping lower.
There’s something in his eyes that steals my breath. Possession, yes, but tenderness too. As if he’s looking at something precious. His lips part, and I know he’s about to say something that could tilt the balance between us completely.
But then someone calls his name.
We both turn as a poised woman with flawless makeup and pearls glides toward us. She’s all socialite smiles and curated grace. I dislike her right away.
Lorenzo’s entire demeanor changes.
“Victoria,” he greets flatly.
She leans in to kiss both his cheeks, air only, of course, and runs a hand down his arm like she owns him.
“I was just telling Fran that I missed seeing you at family dinners.” Her voice is syrupy and laced with judgment. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to attend Simone’s funeral.”
It takes me a moment to register what she means.
Simone.
Sienna.
The names aren’t even close.
“Sienna,” I correct before I can stop myself.
Victoria finally seems to notice me, and the temperature in her gaze drops several degrees. “Pardon?”
“Sienna is Lorenzo’s daughter.”
The smile she gives me is pure society venom. It’s polished, precise, and sharp enough to draw blood. Like I’ve just made a fatal etiquette mistake.
But I hold her gaze and lift my chin, silently daring her to say more. And she does.
“And you are?”
Lorenzo answers, “This is Elizabeth. She’s Sienna’s best friend.”
Victoria’s lips twitch in a tight, humorless smile. “Was,” she says, voice clipped. “And what is she still doing here? The funeral was weeks ago.”
My lips part. Two. It’s been two weeks. She speaks like grief comes with an expiration date. But she’s not done yet.
“This must be the girl Fran was telling me and her father about,” she says, as if I’m not standing right in front of her. Her eyes sweep over me, full of disdain. “She’s quite upset, you know. And I heard you canceled your gala appearance tonight.” A mock-sad shake of her head. “What will people say? I believe Federico is planning to call you about it.”
Lorenzo’s phone buzzes in his pocket like the universe timing its entrance. He checks the screen, then looks to me.
“I have to take this,” he says softly.
