Her voice cracks on the last word. Just slightly. Just enough.
Fuck.
I take a long sip of espresso.
"Fine," I say. "I'll arrange it."
Aria nods, satisfied. "Good. And Nico?"
"Yeah?"
"Make sure she feels welcome. Not overwhelmed." She pauses. Be gentle with her. She did a brave thing. She doesn't need you interrogating her over dinner."
Pietro snorts. Actually snorts. The bastard.
"I don't interrogate people over dinner."
"You interrogate people over everything," Pietro says without looking up from his tablet. "It's your default setting."
"I just ask questions."
"Not when you ask them like a prosecutor building a case."
Aria pats my hand again. "Just be nice, tesoro. That's all I'm asking."
Be nice. Two words I've never been particularly good at.
I stand, pushing back from the table. "I'll let you know when Liam has the information. We can discuss timing then."
"Tomorrow," Aria says.
I stop. "What?"
"The dinner. Tomorrow night." She picks up her espresso cup and takes a delicate sip. "I'm not getting any younger, and I'd like to thank the woman who ensured I get a few more years."
Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours to vet a complete stranger, run a background check deep enough, coordinate schedules for half a dozen family members, and somehow convince a woman who fled from me like I was the devil himself to walk into a mafia compound for dinner.
Piece of cake.
I don't argue. There's no point. When Aria Sartori makes up her mind, the rest of us just fall in line.
"Tomorrow," I repeat. "I'll make it happen."
She smiles.
I turn and walk out before she can see my face.
A thank-you card. A check. That's all this needed to be.
But no. We're Sartoris. We do nothing small. Nothing simple.
We invite strangers into our home and pretend we're not monsters.
My phone buzzes. Liam.
Liam: Got a hit on your mystery woman. Kristen Thomas. 26. Single mother. One daughter, age 4. Currently employed at Premier Catering Services. Lives in Pilsen. Want the full report?
I type back without breaking stride.
