He glanced briefly toward the door before returning his attention to me.
“Disrespecting Vincenzo—especially in front of the staff—is not something you can afford to do.”
His voice firmed slightly.
“They all know it. The staff. The soldiers. Everyone who works under him.”
Another pause, shorter this time.
“And so do I.”
Something in my chest tightened at his words.
Because, deep down, I knew he wasn’t wrong.
Men like Vincenzo—men who built power on fear and control—didn’t forgive disrespect easily.
Disrespect wasn’t just an insult to them; it was a threat.
Disobedience challenged their authority.
And in a world like his, those weren’t mistakes you got to walk away from.
“Like I said,” Ciro began.
“I’ll make sure Vincenzo stays out of the kitchen tonight.”
“It’s already enough that you didn’t take part in the cooking,” he continued, measured and controlled. “But you will serve them. The way you were instructed.”
A slight pause.
“Properly. Respectfully.”
“Let the night end without turning it into a spectacle,” he added, his eyes sharpening just slightly, “especially one driven by Vincenzo’s anger.”
Silence.
Then, I exhaled quietly.
“Fine,” I said, the word reluctant, dragged out of me rather than given freely. “I’ll do as instructed.”
I swallowed hard, forcing down the last remnants of my pride as it gave way to something colder.
Ciro exhaled, quiet but noticeable, like someone releasing tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Then he straightened, turned toward the chefs, and when he spoke, his voice carried none of the softness he had shown me.
“Elena assisted in the preparation of this dinner,” Ciro said, his tone leaving no room for interpretation. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
All seven chefs answered at once, their voices perfectly aligned.
Then he turned and walked toward the door.
He didn’t look back.
The door swung shut behind him with a quiet, decisive click.
