"All away at school. Harvard, Yale, and Oxford respectively. Very good boys. Studious. Respectful."
Saint rolls his eyes. "Unlike their delinquent cousin."
"I didn't say that." There's a note of suffering in Antonio's voice. This isn't the first time they've had this conversation.
"You didn't have to." Saint isn't petulant. He's neutral.
He doesn't appear to care, and yet I see a hint of tension.
There's affection there, buried under layers of Marini stoicism. But it's also like Antonio wishes Saint were different. More like his sons.
Even I see it.
It's similar to my own mother and brother.
There's a power play here. A grown heir fighting against an old guard. I push that idea off to the back of my mind.
"They'll be home for Christmas," Antonio continues. "They were disappointed to miss the wedding, but you know how demanding school can be."
His words make my stomach churn. I do. I was in the middle of getting my graduate degree when Antonio invaded my life, and I'd been forced to give up my studies.
I focus on the soup, taking small spoonfuls. It's too rich, but I swallow politely.
"You're not eating much," Antonio observes.
"I'm not very hungry."
"If the food is not to your liking, I can ask the cook?—"
I shake my head. "It's delicious. I'm just not feeling my best." I take another small spoonful.
Saint is silent beside me, but I feel his eyes on me.
The main course arrives—chicken, roasted vegetables, risotto. It looks and smells delicious, and it's not nearly as heavy as the soup.
"More wine?" Antonio offers, reaching for the bottle.
"No, thank you."
"You're sure? It's a very good vintage."
"I'm sure."
His eyes narrow, and he glances at Saint for a moment. There is a small smile on his face.
He pours himself more, then Saint. They talk business—shipments, territory, some issue with a union at the docks. I tune it out, focusing on the mechanical act of cutting my chicken into smaller and smaller pieces.
"Gemma."
I look up. Both men are staring at me.
"You've cut that piece into confetti," Saint says. "Are you going to eat it, or are we just practicing knife skills?"
I eat, focusing on my food instead of my thoughts.
"Good girl," Saint says, and I want to throw my plate at him.
I force down a few more bites even though I want to shove this plate up his ass.
