Page 138 of Dangerous King
"What about the Venezuelans?" Marcello brings the subject back to the real problem.
"Matías assured me he will look into it, and that is good enough for me," Edoardo drones his mantra.
Stephano looks ready to throw a chair, but Edoardo slams down the gavel. "Basta. Finito."
He storms out like he's still in charge—right into Donna Margarita.
Perfect timing.
"Donna Margarita, this is a surprise."
Marcello's whispered words to his second-in-command catch my attention. I only hear fragments.Venezuelans. Everything.
Donna Margarita doesn't speak. She slaps Edoardo so hard it echoes.
"You spineless bastard," she growls. Her finger points at me. "What are you going to do about that killer?"
"Donna Margarita." I stand and bow my head toward her. Even though I can't stand that woman, I have to respect the grief of a woman who lost her son.
"Giovanni kidnapped his sister. It was in his rights to kill your son. I'm sorry, Donna Margarita," Edoardo apologizes.
Donna Margarita's eyes blaze at me, promising death. Another war is coming my way, and I'd better not underestimate the grief of a mother.
Two days later…
I never thought picking out shades of ivory could feel like a diplomatic summit.
"We need a base tone that doesn't wash her out," Izzy insists, spreading out another fan of swatches over Eliza's pristine marble table. "This one's too cold. And this one's basically eggshell pretending to be champagne."
Sabine snorts softly beside her. "Isn't that the point of all these? Pretending to be something else?"
Izzy glares. "Some of us call itnuance."
Sabine doesn't answer, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth says she thinks she's winning. I'm so glad to see these two finally getting along.
"Girls," Eliza says in her serene, authoritative tone, the one that ends arguments without raising her voice. "Let's focus. Catalina, what speaks to you?"
I open my mouth, but my mother beats me to it. "She… she always loves a blush," she says, her accent thick and warm like the Sicilian summer sun. "Not too pink, though? More … dusty… like dusty rose."
She holds the swatch up like it's a sacred relic, squinting at it, determined to find the right words. "It's soft and romantic. It's femminile."
Izzy blinks at her, clearly caught off guard by the intensity. Eliza, ever graceful, nods and replies gently, "It's a perfect choice. It's exactly Catalina's style."
The two are talking like I'm not even here.
My mother brightens. "Yes!"
She beams at me, proud and insistent, as if blush were not just a color but my entire identity.
"That was fourteen years ago," I murmur, but no one's listening.
Mamma and Eliza have drifted into a brainstorming loop of florals, seating charts, and table linens. Sabine is holding two swatches up to the light, head tilted thoughtfully. Izzy is swiping through something on her phone—Pinterest, probably—her brow furrowed like the fate of the wedding depends on her screen.
I take this moment and commit it to memory. Here they are, my mamma and my future mother-in-law. My sister and my best friend, who will soon be my sister-in-law. My chest warms up. Family. Something I never thought I would have again. They're right here.
Then the door slams open, so hard, it bounces against the wall. Everyone jumps, even Eliza. Swatches go flying like startled doves. My eyes snap to the entrance: Enrico.
Something is wrong; his face looks carved from granite, his jaw is tight, and a storm is raging in his eyes. He doesn't even pause to take a breath. "The wedding date has to move up."
