No argument. No finish your drink. No give me ten minutes.
Angelo is on his feet before the sentence fully lands.
I huff out a quiet laugh and stand with him. “Romantic.”
“Smart,” he says, already reaching for Adriana’s hand.
She rolls her eyes a little at that, but she’s smiling. Tired. Fond. Done with this fucking night.
Angelo looks back at me once. “I’ll send everything over when I get it.”
I nod. “Do that.”
His grip hits my forearm, mine hits his. Quick. Firm.
Then he’s gone, hand low on Adriana’s back, guiding her toward the exit like the rest of the world stopped existing the second she said she was tired.
Show-off.
The seat beside me isn’t empty long.
Ayla drops into it like she belongs there. Like it was always hers.
She sets her champagne down on the table and exhales. “If one more person tells me I clean up nice, I’m going to start stabbing.”
I look at her over the rim of my glass. “You do clean up nice.”
She turns her head slowly and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re brave tonight.”
“Or stupid.”
“Definitely stupid.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth.
She’s a little flushed from champagne, from dancing, from existing in a room full of dangerous people and coming out the prettiest thing in it anyway. Her gaze drops to my drink, then to my face again.
“You ready to go?” I ask.
“Almost.”
Her attention shifts over my shoulder toward the long table near the windows where the last of the food is being picked through by lingering guests.
“I’m gonna steal food first.”
I glance over. “Of course you are.”
She points. “The empanadas.”
My mouth twitches. “You know what those are?”
“I know Luciano’s mother made them, and I know I had one earlier, and I know they’re fucking delicious.”
Fair.
She starts to rise, but I catch her wrist first and tug her between my knees.
She gives me a look. “What?”
