Page 49

It was so…damn…quiet.

Every clink of a fork or tap of a wineglass against a water glass made me start. The silence had weight, pressing against my eardrums until I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my chest.

This was the polar opposite of what I imagined an Italian family dinner would be.

I guessed I had fallen for the Hollywood version.

Usually, these meals were eaten out on a sun-drenched terrace at a rough-hewn table haphazardly draped with a handmade linen tablecloth. The table would be filled with large ceramic platters overflowing with pasta, marinated vegetables, large crusty loaves of bread, and fresh fruit.

Everyone would be laughing as they passed the platters to one another while some random dude played guitar off to the side. There would be grandmothers pinching cheeks and fathers slapping backs and mothers urging everyone to eat more, more, more.

Tonight, by contrast, we might as well have been dining in a beautiful mausoleum.

The first course was cleared before anyone said a word, the servants moving like shadows, appearing and disappearing without sound.

Next was spaghetti con ciboria e bottarga.

This time when the servant leaned down to whisper in my ear, Sebastian stopped him, his hand shooting out to grasp the man's wrist.

The crack of bone against bone made me flinch.

"That will be all, Edwardo. I will see to Sabrina's needs."

The threat was unmistakable, the servant’s face draining of color at the dark undercurrent.

I played with the napkin on my lap, my cheeks aflame at Sebastian’s deliberate double entendre. The linen crumpled between my fingers, a silent casualty of my anxiety.

The servant bowed, his eyes carefully avoiding mine. "Of course, Signore Diamanti."

He backed away, nursing his wrist.

Sebastian leaned close, his mouth almost brushing the shell of my ear. "This is spaghetti with dandelion greens and bottarga, which is dried fish roe."

His voice was honey-smooth now, his tone devoid of any hint he’d just nearly broken a man's wrist.

Ignoring his explanation, I reached for my wine and finished the glass in one desperate swallow before whispering, "You didn't have to do that. He was just being nice."

Sebastian smirked, twirling his fork in his pasta with practiced elegance. "He was also looking at your tits each time he leaned over."

His eyes didn't leave mine as he took a bite, his tongue darting out to catch a drop of oil from his lower lip.

I flattened my hand over my chest, the silk of my dress suddenly seeming too thin, too revealing.

What the hell.

Was there literally no one I could depend on to just be genuinely nice without an agenda in this gilded palace? Every smile concealed a knife; every courtesy masked a threat.

Having barely touched my artichoke and already feeling the effect of the wine on an empty stomach, I forced myself to take a few bites of spaghetti. I had thought the bottarga would have an unpleasant fish taste, but it was more like smoked salt, which balanced the bitterness of the dandelion greens.

Each bite stuck in my throat, requiring more wine to wash it down.

A servant exchanged my used wineglass for a fresh one with silent efficiency. This time he poured what I was told was a Cantina Tollo Pecorino, a white wine from the Abruzzo region.

I couldn't care less as long as it was alcohol.

Anything to dull the razor-sharp edges of this nightmare of a dinner.

The servants had barely begun to clear the plates when the massive oak doors swung open with enough force to bounce against the walls.