"You've been crying," I say quietly. So only she can hear.
Her jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"Vittoria."
"Not now." She glances at me. "Please. Later."
I want to press. Want to pull her aside and demand she tell me what's wrong.
But I respect her enough to wait.
"Later," I agree.
The dining room is already set when we enter. Long mahogany table. Crystal glasses. White candles flickering in silver holders.
The smell of cooking meat and herbs drifts from the kitchen. Rich. Savory. My stomach growls despite my attempts to ignore it.
Vittoria takes her usual seat. I settle beside her, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
The others arrive in waves.
Lorenzo enters first, Sophia tucked against his side.
Nico follows with Kristen.
Pietro guides Nora to the table.
Bruno wheels himself in last. His jaw is set. Eyes hard. He positions his wheelchair at the end of the table, separate from the rest of us.
A maid appears with wine bottles. She pours to all of us.
Pietro raises his glass. "To family."
"To family," we echo.
The wine is excellent. Bold. Complex.
I take another sip, watching the dynamics around the table. Lorenzo whispering something that makes Sophia blush. Nico's hand resting on Kristen's thigh under the table. Bruno staring at his wine like it personally offended him.
And Vittoria beside me. Still tense. Still hiding whatever made her cry.
Pietro sets down his glass and turns toward the kitchen doorway.
"Giulia!"
Footsteps. Then a woman emerges. Late fifties. Kind face. She wipes her hands on her apron as she approaches.
"Dmitri," Pietro says, "this is Giulia. She's been with our family for over thirty years. Practically raised us."
I stand and take her hand. "It's an honor to meet you."
Giulia studies me. Assessing. Judging.
"So you're the Russian who's marrying our Vittoria." Her voice is warm but firm. "She deserves someone who will cherish her."
"I intend to."
"Intentions are easy. Actions are what matter." She squeezes my hand once before releasing it. "But you have kind eyes. That's something."
