Page 141 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
I try to place the boy.
Where did I see him before?
The tilt of his chin.
The way he held the bottle.
Not like a server.
Like someone trained to mimic a server.
The details are wrong in the smallest ways.
Then it hits me.
Rossi gala.
Ten years ago.
A celebration thrown after the southern accord was signed.
A party with too many cameras, too many allies disguised as enemies.
I was nineteen, wearing a black silk gown with silver embroidery shaped like vines.
Rafa had paraded me through the halls like a trophy, then vanished when it counted.
I had retreated to the corridor behind the service wing to catch my breath.
That boy—this boy—was there.
He wasn’t a guest.
He was watching one.
His eyes weren’t on the wine.
They were on the exits.
My breath snags.
"Don’t drink," I say softly.
A guest stares at me.
"What?"
But it’s too late.
Valentina’s goblet is half-empty.
Luca is already pushing his chair back, frowning.
I rise sharply.
Valentina blinks at me.
"Gianna?"
