Page 140 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
Luca gestures to the seat beside Valentina.
I take it.
My hands fold into my lap.
The meal is already in progress.
Braised chicken in a rosemary glaze.
Roasted root vegetables, lacquered and tender.
A bottle of wine I don’t recognize.
No one speaks about why they’re here.
The conversation hovers in strange places—land management initiatives, community rebuilding projects in the southern ports, the complications of retaining loyalty in mixed-blood estates.
I sip water.
I keep my posture straight.
I glance at Valentina twice.
She is tired, but poised.
Her hands move as if she has rehearsed this performance for years.
Every nerve in my spine is still humming from Rafa’s voice.
How do I tell them?
The server who brings the wine is new.
Clean-shaven.
Early twenties.
Too crisp.
Too graceful.
He bows slightly as he fills the glasses and murmurs something I don’t catch.
I thank him.
He meets my eyes for half a second.
Something about his face catches my attention.
Valentina lifts her glass first.
She’s tired.
Distracted.
Her wrist trembles a little when she sips, but she doesn’t comment on it.
Luca follows, ever formal, ever controlled.
