Let Vincenzo watch.
Let him see that I hadn’t lifted a finger.
That I refused to play this role.
That I refused to become part of this performance.
The swinging door eased open with a soft, worn creak.
The shift in the room was immediate.
Not in sound. In presence.
The air seemed to sharpen—like something unseen had just stepped in and taken control of the space without asking for it.
I didn’t turn right away.
I already knew who it was.
Ciro.
He moved like smoke through the space.
Tall.
Lean.
Dark hair swept back with casual precision.
His face carried that same balance of discipline and ease.
His gaze found me first.
Paused.
Flickered with something—surprise, maybe.
Or curiosity.
It was gone almost immediately.
Then his eyes shifted to the kitchen.
To the activity.
To the team.
And finally—to the unfinished risotto station.
He crossed the room in quiet steps, stopping just beside me.
Close enough that his voice wouldn’t carry.
But not so close that it felt invasive.
“You’re not participating,” he said, his voice quiet.
“I’m not,” I replied, just as calmly.
