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The ground beneath my evening shifts slightly.

“Come,” Allegra says, gesturing to the table in a hostess’s sweep. “Matteo is dying to toast the newlyweds.”

Dinner unfolds as eight courses of theatrical flair. Matteo lifts his glass, blessing our marriage with an operatic flourish—love arriving late is the sweetest, uniting two great houses at one table. He places his hand over his heart at famiglia, toasts my bride, and sits to applause.

His sister runs the quieter program between the plates. She orders my drink without asking and tells the table stories with me in them. Portofino. The casino at Sanremo. A New Year’s in Gstaad that she edits into something softer than it was.

“That sounds lovely, Allegra. But he drinks scotch now,” Veda mentions, sugar-sweet, when the Negroni arrives. “I suppose the Negroni suits the vintage of the stories.”

The museum director chokes on his wine. Matteo develops a sincere need to look at the orchids. It’s all I can do not to laugh, because Veda keeps sending back what Allegra throws at her, and I’m somewhere between impressed and deeply aroused. Opting for a laugh will keep me from getting arrested.

“And how do you find our Lupo as a husband?” Allegra asks over the fish, surgical now. “The domestic version. I confess I can’t picture it. Our wolf has never been properly tamed.”

“Attentive,” Veda says. “He reads oncology journals with drugstore glasses he thinks nobody knows about, initials my patient logs at midnight, and loses every argument to a six-year-old on purpose. He’s gone fully domestic. But I think most men can for the right woman.”

Oof.

Allegra’s smile holds. Everything behind it starts calculating. “How intimate.”

“That’s marriage. I imagine it sounds strange to someone who has never been lucky in love. I’m sure that one day you’ll know what it’s like.”

Even if we didn’t have a history—brief though it may be—I’d have fallen in love with Veda just a little bit for politely handing Allegra her ass just now. My wife defends a marriage that does not exist with details that do, and somewhere between the fish and the sorbet I stop being able to tell the difference.

The band starts after dessert. Allegra rises on cue. “Lupo. One dance, for old time’s sake. Your bride won’t begrudge me—she has you for all the other songs.”

Refusing would hand her a scene. We both know it.

Veda smiles. “Lucky for Allegra, I’m not a jealous woman. Go dance, love.”

I go, and I keep the frame formal, while Allegra spends the waltz speaking low Italian against my jaw for the room’s benefit.

What she actually says is business. “Matteo is still reflecting. I could help him reflect faster, tesoro. I always could. Remember that when the reflecting starts costing you.”

“That’s what lawyers are for. Don’t do me any favors.”

“Lawyers.” She laughs for the audience, head back, a portrait for anyone watching. “When have you and I ever needed paper. Look at her, your fresh little wife. She won’t stay that way forever. Milan will have its way with her.”

“Meaning?”

Her feral smile used to turn me on. Now, it’s another irritation. “Meaning she cannot stay here and remain so innocent. She will learn the truth of you. One way or another.”

“And what truth is that?”

“You are not the man you pretend to be with her.” She tilts her head to the side in a mockery of empathy. “It must be so exhausting, being her domesticated dog instead of the wolf we both know you are.”

“People change, Allegra.”

“Not you. Not us.” She pulls me closer and for a moment, I let her do it. I need to know where she’s going with this. “When you tire of your sweet doctor, you know where to find me.”

The song can’t end soon enough, and once it does, I turn to find my wife in the crowd she’s gathered. A football club owner, two designers, and a deputy minister circle around the royal purple, while Veda gestures with her hands as she narrates a story. The deputy minister leans in slightly, showing more than just professional curiosity. He’s staring down her cleavage, and she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Gentlemen.” I collect her hand, kiss her knuckles below my grandmother’s stone, and let them watch me do it. “I’m going to dance with my wife now.”

She obliges me, and we dance one song, both of us smiling for the cameras. Somehow, her smile doesn’t fade when her bitter words come out. “Enjoy the waltz down memory lane?”

“Enjoy the deputy minister staring at your tits?”

“He was not. He was asking about pediatric oncology funding.”