"No." She moves closer, adjusting a fork that was already perfect. "Tonight, you watch. You listen. You learn who the players are. Questions come later, when we're alone."
"So I'm supposed to just sit there and smile?"
"You're supposed to observe. Every family has their dynamics. Their tensions. Their weaknesses." She meets my eyes. "The Marinis are allies, but that doesn't mean they're friends. Pay attention to what isn't said as much as what is. That is your role. Be Adrian's eyes."
I want to ask more, but Adrian appears with Luc and Gemma.
Gemma.
Adrian's sister. The one I've barely seen since moving into the mansion. I'd looked for her after the wedding, but the staff informed me she'd returned to school after our post-wedding breakfast. I'd felt a twinge of sadness that we wouldn't be in the same house, but I couldn't blame her.
Who would want to stay here—in this fortress of ice.
"Gemma." Bianca's voice warms slightly. "You remember Seraphina."
Gemma approaches with the grace of someone trained from birth in this world. Her smile is polite but genuine, but there's something in her expression that is guarded.
"It's nice to see you again," she says politely.
I smile. "It is. I heard you were back at school."
She nods, but before she can say anything Bianca jumps in. I can see Gemma's frustration. Her eyes narrow slightly, and her teeth grind against her bottom lip.
"Columbia," Bianca supplies. "Finishing her degree in art history."
"Wow. Do you enjoy it?"
"I do." Gemma's smile turns slightly sad. "I'd been hoping to get my doctorate studies in Paris, but it appears that won't be necessary."
Something in her tone makes my stomach tighten. It's the same tone she had when she talked to me about my wedding. There's something happening here, and Gemma is in the center of it.
"I was hoping?—"
The doorbell rings, stopping the conversation.
"They're here." Bianca straightens. "Gemma, come!"
Gemma's shoulders sag, but she listens, taking her place next to her mother. Adrian and I are on Bianca's other side, Luc next to him.
It's like we're actors in a play, all on our marks, ready for the show.
The Marinis enter like they own the place.
Antonio Marini is in his sixties, silver-haired, with the kind of face that's seen everything and been impressed by nothing. Slightly wrinkled with dark eyes that scan everything. He moves with quiet authority, shaking Bianca's hand first, and then Adrian's.
He leans to me, pressing a small kiss on my cheek. Adrian stiffens, but when he says nothing, I suspect this is protocol.
"Thank you for having us," he says. His accent is subtle. New York Italian, softened by generations.
"Always a pleasure, Antonio," Bianca says.
Behind him is a younger man. Late twenties, maybe thirty. Tall, dark, covered in tattoos that peek out from his collar and cuffs. He wears his suit without a tie, and the buttons at his neck are undone. His dark hair is slicked haphazardly back, with some pieces falling into his stunning green eyes.
Santino. Saint, I'll learn later everyone calls him.
He looks at Gemma first. Then at me. His eyes linger too long, and I feel Adrian tense beside me.
"Santino," Antonio says sharply. "Manners."
