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"Please. Do you have any idea what a boat like that costs just to run?" He laughs. "If you have to ask, my friend, you can't afford the fuel."

Across from me, Manon rolls her eyes, and I fall for her a little more, which is embarrassing at my age.

"Someone's having a good night," she says.

"Someone always is." I fill her glass back up. "Give him a minute. He'll run out of yacht eventually."

She laughs at that one. She doesn't bother hiding it this time, and my cock goes hard again, damn it. I’m back to being a teenager when I'm around her.

My phone goes off against the table, and I nearly ignore it because there is very little on this earth I want more right now than to keep watching my wife laugh. Then I see the screen.

Bianca.

I answer, because you always answer when Bianca calls. If you don't, she calls again. Then she calls the house. Then she calls Rafe, and before long someone's on a plane to Florence.

"I need you to confirm something with a man called Piero," she says, no hello. There's music behind her. "He doesn't believe you're my brother and what you do. He thinks I made you up because I didn't want to dance with him."

"Bianca."

"So say something brotherly. Threaten him a little. Nothing that'll ruin the night, just enough."

"It's the middle of dinner."

"It's the middle of my night too, and I'm the one being called a liar." A pause. "You bought me a car last month I didn't ask for. You can spare me forty seconds now."

My sister is twenty-three, studies things I don't understand in a city I had to look up to learn more about, and moved four thousand miles from this family on purpose. Through it all, I have never once been able to say no to her. She's the only person alive who talks to me like I'm nothing to be afraid of, and she's right because I’m her brother who is supposed to protect her.

Manon flaps a hand at me, gesturing to me to go ahead and take the call. As she reaches for the bread, I step toward the front of the restaurant to spend a minute terrifying an Italian named Piero on my sister's behalf.

It takes closer to five minutes. Once Bianca has me on the phone she doesn't let go easily. She has a dozen things to tell me over the over loud music, wherever she is, and every time I try to end the call she starts again.

By the time I get back to the table, Manon's chair is empty, but I'm not worried. Her bag's still there, and the waiter tells me she asked for the restroom a few minutes ago, so I sit back down and refill my glass.

When she comes back, I can tell straight away that she's upset. Right now she's pretending everything is fine, and that's the first thing that worries me because Manon is notoriously good at being open and blunt with her anger, her annoyance, or whatever has her panties in a twist. She usually wants me to see exactly how she feels, especially when it's something unpleasant about me.

But when she’s truly upset, it’s different.

She sits down and reaches for her wine. Her hand is shaking. She notices and puts the glass down fast before I can say anything, and then she keeps her eyes on the table. Manon never looks at the table. She looks at me to argue with, to win points. Not now though.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says. "The bathroom flooded. I had to go find someone to deal with it."

"Try again."

"It flooded, Laszlo. Water. On the floor. It happens in buildings."

"I believe the flood. I don't believe it's the reason you can't hold your wine without spilling half of it on the tablecloth." I sit back. "So we can do this the slow way. I'm very patient, I've got all night."

"There's no slow way, because there's nothing to tell you. Tell me, your sister Bianca. She never came to our wedding or the engagement party."

"Then look at me while you say it. She is at university and I didn’t want her distracted. You’ll meet her soon enough. I repeat, look at me while you say it."

She looks away, and I hate that she won't tell me who upset her. She's right to be wary because I already know how I am going to kill the person that did it.

"Here's my problem," I say. "You're the least rattled person I've ever met. I've watched you handle your demanding job on the worst of days and move on to arguing with me about the way the staff won’t let you tidy up the bedroom when you get home, because it’s already done. Few things faze you, including exhaustion. So a flooded bathroom did not do this. Somebody in this room did. And I'm a patient man, but I'm going to need a name before dessert."

"Stop it."