The wedding planner starts talking.
I stop listening after the first thirty seconds because if I pay attention to the details of this wedding, to the flowers and the music and the specific timeline of how Isabella becomes Vittorio's wife, I'm going to do something that will get everyone in this room killed.
Instead, I slide my hand under the table and rest it on Isabella's thigh.
I feel the exact moment she registers it, the almost imperceptible straightening of her spine, the way her hands still in her lap, the careful breath she takes through her nose.
I leave my hand there and do nothing. Just let her feel it. Let her sit with the weight of it while the planner talks about Saturday's timeline.
Vittorio leans in and says something low to Isabella and she turns to him with a polite smile and I watch her do it and I drag my thumb slowly up the inside of her thigh.
Her smile doesn't falter. But her hand drops to her lap and her fingers close around my wrist and squeeze, a warning, or a plea, I genuinely cannot tell which, and I turn my hand over under her grip and press my palm flat against the warmth of her inner thigh and watch her swallow.
The planner flips to a new section of her folder.
"Everything is on schedule. The wedding will take place in five days," she says brightly." We've confirmed the venue, the catering, the florals, and the security details. "
Five days.
The number sits in my chest like a countdown timer.
"Security will need to be thorough," Salvatore says, and his voice pulls me back into the conversation. "Given recent events with the O'Rourkes, I want additional measures in place."
"Agreed," Matteo says. "Enzo will coordinate with your head of security. We'll have overlapping coverage."
Salvatore nods and then his eyes move to me with an expression I can't immediately read, something assessing and patient. "Your reputation precedes you, Bianchi. Matteo speaks highly of your capabilities."
Across the table, Rafael's mouth twitches. Dante doesn't react at all, which somehow feels worse.
"Thank you," I say, because I can't think of anything else to say.
I move higher.
Isabella's grip on my wrist tightens to the point of pain. I let her have it. I keep moving and she keeps squeezing and neither of us looks at the other.
Across the table Matteo is making notes on something, Salvatore is asking about security positioning and Vittorio is nodding with that easy confidence of a man who has never once in his life considered that something he wanted might not materialize.
I get to exactly where I want to be and stop.
Just pressure. Just heat. Just my hand and the thin fabric between us and the knowledge, which I am choosing to let ruin me, that she's not moving my hand.
Isabella reaches for her water glass.
Her fingers are not entirely steady.
She takes a sip, sets it down and crosses her ankles under the table and I feel her shift, the tiniest adjustment of her hips, and my jaw tightens because that was not her trying to move away from me.
Salvatore says something about guest lists.
I push the fabric aside.
Isabella makes a sound — barely a sound, half a breath, swallowed so fast that nobody in this room catches it except me. I keep it, filing it away next to every other sound she's ever made for me — and her nails find my wrist, digging into it while she trembles against them.
There you are.
"Vittorio," Salvatore says, "your thoughts on the seating arrangements?"
Vittorio turns to answer his father.
