Twenty-six
Chiara
The house is already loud when we walk in, the front door left open to the late afternoon air. Garlic and tomatoes hit first, and then voices—overlapping, easy, familiar. Chairs scrape. Someone laughs too hard.
It feels like we’re stepping into something already in motion, not interrupting it.
Rebecca stands at the stove with Ameila on a stool at her side, wooden spoon in hand, stirring without turning. She tips the spoon in our direction. “There you are,” she says. “Come in.”
“We made it.” I close the door behind us.
Ciro’s hand lands at my back, brief and steady, guiding me forward, like it’s expected. I let it happen, aware of it without reacting to it.
Henry looks up from the table, glass halfway to his mouth. “Perfect timing. She was about to start without you.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Rebecca calls over her shoulder. “I’d never start without you.”
Luca hooks a chair out with his foot and drops into it. “That’s not true.” He grins. “She absolutely would.”
Matteo tears a piece of bread in half, dragging it through oil and hands it to Amelia. “Only if we let her.” He takes a big bite of her bread, and she giggles. “And I would have because I’m starved.”
Ellory bumps his shoulder as she passes, setting a bowl down in front of him. “Wait for everyone to sit down.”
“I’m not waiting.” Matteo lifts the bread slightly like proof.
The door opens behind us.
Gianna steps in, her hand catching my arm before I can say anything.
“You good?” she asks quietly, her attention on me instead of the room.
“I’m fine.” I reach for her hand. “Come with me a second.”
I guide her toward the hall, and she follows without question, glancing once over her shoulder—toward Ciro—before we step into the sitting room and let the noise of the house dull behind us.
I push the door halfway closed, leaving it there, close enough for privacy but not fully shut.
Gianna drops into the armchair, tucking one leg under her. “I was going to come find you anyway. Are you okay?”
“I’m worried about you.” I stay on my feet and try not to pace. “Tell me what happened.”
She exhales, the breath small but uneven, and for a second, it almost reads like she’s about to laugh. “I thought he was hitting on me.”
I don’t interrupt. I just watch her.
“He sat down like he already knew me.” Her expression shifts as she replays it.
“We started talking, about nothing at first, and then everything. Classes, the City, places we’ve both been.
It didn’t feel like anything.” She shakes her head once.
“I didn’t even notice how long we’d been sitting there. ”
“How long,” I ask.
She looks up at me. “Over an hour.”
I don’t answer right away.
“He kept me laughing,” she adds, quieter now. “Every time I tried to leave, he’d ask something else, something easy, something that didn’t feel like it mattered.”
Of course it didn’t. He’s a master manipulator.
“What did you tell him?” I cross my arms without thinking.
She hesitates this time, and that’s all I need to see. “Nothing important.” She looks away. “At least… it didn’t feel important while we were talking.”
“He pulled it out of you,” I say, the words coming low.
She nods, her fingers tightening in the fabric at her sleeve. “I didn’t realize it until I left. I started replaying it, what he asked, what I said. It didn’t feel like anything while it was happening.”
“It wouldn’t.” I sit on the edge of the chair across from her. “That’s what he does.”
She studies me, something unsettled behind her expression. “He didn’t feel dangerous.”
“He is.” I hold her gaze.
She looks away first. “Before I left, he said…” Her voice trails, her fingers pressing into her knee.
“What?” I push, leaning forward slightly.
“He said if I see you, I should tell you he’s looking for you.”
The words settle between us, quiet and deliberate in a way that doesn’t need emphasis.
I let out a slow breath, my hand flattening briefly against my thigh. “He wanted me to know that.”
“He was smiling when he said it,” she adds.
Ciro’s voice cuts in before I turn. “No.”
I feel the change in the room before I look—the way Gianna straightens, the way the space tightens—and when I do turn, he’s already inside, one hand braced against the frame, not blocking the door but claiming it.
“That’s not happening,” he says, his tone even but final.
Gianna sits up a little straighter, her eyes moving between us. “I didn’t say it was.”
Ciro steps farther into the room, his attention settling on her. “You sat with him for over an hour.”
“I didn’t know who he was. He looked like a grad student.”
“He could have been anyone,” he says, steady. “A reporter. Someone looking to make a problem. Or exactly what he was.”
She swallows, her fingers tightening again. “I know.”
“He got what he needed without you realizing it,” he adds.
Her gaze lifts to his and then drops, the shift small but immediate. “It didn’t feel like that,” she says, quieter now. “It was just easy to talk to him.”
“This isn’t your fault.” I step in before it goes further. “He’s very skilled at getting information from people before they realize it. This is all on me.”
She nods, but it doesn’t settle anything.
A light knock taps against the open door, and Dante leans in, his hand braced against the frame. “Dinner’s on. Everything okay in here?”
His gaze moves to Gianna and then back to Ciro before he steps fully inside.
Gianna wipes quickly at her face, turning slightly away, but it’s already been seen.
“You’re good,” Dante says to her, not asking.
She nods once.
I move closer, my hand settling lightly on her shoulder. “Stay close to your detail. No wandering off. Not even for a minute.”
“I won’t,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words coming quieter now. “That he even got close to you.”
Her head lifts. “That’s not your fault.”
I shake my head slightly. “He’s in my orbit. That makes it mine.”
“No,” Dante says, cutting in, not sharp but firm.
I look at him.
“You don’t own what other people do,” he says. “You manage what happens next.”
Gianna pushes to her feet and steps into me, her arms wrapping around me in a quick, tight hug. “I’m okay,” she says into my shoulder.
“I know.” I hold her for a second before letting her go.
“Come on,” Dante says. “Before Rebecca sends someone in here to drag us out.”
That pulls a small breath of a laugh from her.
He steps aside to let her pass and then pauses when I move to follow.
“Don’t carry that,” he says quietly, just for me.
I hold his gaze for a beat and then nod once before stepping back into the noise of the house.
The table is already filling by the time we step back in, plates shifting as people make room without needing to be asked. Rebecca slides a platter of prosciutto and olives down the center and nudges a stack of plates into place, not looking up as she does it.
“Sit,” she says, like it’s already decided. “Before this goes cold.”
“Where’s Amelia?” I ask.
“She decided to eat with Rufus,” Matteo says. “Which means he’s eating her dinner and she’s plotting how to take him home with her.” Rufus is Rebecca’s basset hound who is lucky if he gets off his bed twice a day to do his business outside.
“If she can talk him into,” Rebecca offers.
“No,” Ellory says. “We love Rufus, but he would hate the condo.”
Luca leans back in his chair, reaching across Matteo for the bread. “I’m hungry,” he says easily. “Where’s the food?”
Rebecca lets out a short breath that might be a laugh as she turns back to the stove. “That’s because none of you can be trusted with it.”
Henry drags his chair in closer to the table, the legs scraping once against the floor. “He’ll eat either way.” He tears off a piece of bread and dips it into oil. “He always does.”
“Only because you let him,” Ellory says, setting another dish down and nudging Luca’s arm aside with her hip. “Move. You’re in the way.”
I take the seat beside Ciro, aware of how easily the space opens for me, even if I haven’t earned it yet. Luca pours wine without asking, his hand steady as he fills my glass, and I catch it before it tips too far.
“You made it through,” he says, a quick glance in my direction.
“Barely,” I answer, letting the word sit lighter than it could.
Matteo drags a piece of bread through the oil, his focus on the plate until it isn’t. “You’re still here.” He looks at me now, not the plate. “That counts.”
“It’s a choice.” I lift my fork before setting it back down again, more aware of the room than the food.
“Eat,” Rebecca calls, setting a wide bowl of pasta in the center of the table, the smell of it cutting through the conversation.
“Try to stop me,” Luca says, already leaning in for it, the serving spoon scraping lightly against the bowl.
“GEM show,” Henry lifts his fork toward Ciro as the pasta starts to move around the table. “You’re all confirmed?”
“Confirmed.” Ciro passes the bowl toward me before serving himself. “Layout locks tomorrow.”
“Which layout?” Ellory asks, pulling the salad closer to her side but not serving it yet. “The one Matteo doesn’t like or the one Luca thinks is safe.”
Matteo sets his fork down, the small shift enough to draw a line through the conversation. “I don’t dislike it,” he says, measured.
“It’s a show,” Luca says. “People stop.”
“They stop where you make them stop,” Matteo answers, lifting his glass for a drink.
I reach for the bread without thinking, tearing off a piece as I follow the line of it. “You’re slowing them down on purpose.” I dip it into the sauce at the edge of my plate. “That’s where the sale happens.”
Matteo’s attention moves to me. “You think it works.”
“I think they stay longer,” I say, meeting it without pushing. “That’s where you make money.”
Luca taps his fork lightly against his glass. “She gets it.”
“That’s not the same as it working.” Matteo doesn’t look away this time.
Rebecca comes back through, setting the roasted chicken down with a firm, practiced movement before reaching across Dante to shift a plate an inch to the left. “Eat while it’s hot,” she says, already cutting into it before anyone else can.
“Someone has to make sure it’s right,” Henry says, reaching in without hesitation.
Dante pushes his chair back just enough to reach into his jacket and sets the black velvet box down in the center.
“Before you decide anything,” he says, flipping the clasp open, “look at this.”
The conversation drops without needing to be asked.
Luca leans in first, forearms braced on the table. “That’s new.”
“It’s finished,” Dante says, opening it fully.
The emeralds catch the light immediately, deep and clean, set in a line that pulls your eye without effort. It doesn’t need explanation. It holds the space on its own.
Ellory’s hand hovers just short of the edge. “That’s not subtle.”
“It’s not meant to be,” Dante says, angling it slightly so everyone can see. “It anchors the room.”
Henry leans in, adjusting his glasses as he studies it. “Your mother would have liked that.”
“It’s exactly how she designed it,” Dante replies.
Luca taps the table once, sitting back again. “You’re putting that in the center and expecting people to move around it.”
“They will.” Dante closes the box halfway before opening it again. “Everything else follows that.”
Matteo leans forward now, elbows on the table, his attention fixed. “Security on that needs to be tight.”
“Jim is prepared,” Dante says.
I shift slightly closer without thinking, my shoulder brushing Ciro’s as I look again. “You won’t have to force anything. They’ll go to it.”
Matteo glances at me and then back at the box. “It changes the flow,” he says, picking up his fork again, though he doesn’t use it yet.
Luca smirks. “You hate it less.”
“I didn’t say that.” Matteo cut into his chicken.
Rebecca slides the salad into the middle without interrupting, pushing a fork into it as she moves past. “Eat.”
Dante closes the box and rests his hand over it.
“Tomorrow,” Ciro says, reaching for the salad and passing it to me. “We lock it.”
“Morning,” Matteo says, glancing at him. “We’ll need numbers before that.”
“You’ll have them,” Ciro answers.
“Eat your food,” Rebecca calls from the kitchen.
Dinner conversation drifts between the show, old stories, and whoever gets pulled into the next round of teasing while plates are passed and refilled without asking.
I find the rhythm of it without trying—when to speak, when to listen, when to let things move around me—and no one makes it feel like I don’t belong.
That doesn’t make it safe. It just makes it harder to leave.
By the time the last of the chicken is gone and the pasta bowl is scraped clean, chairs start to shift back on their own, people standing, stacking plates, carrying them toward the kitchen in a pattern they don’t need to discuss.
Rebecca waves off help and then takes it anyway, directing traffic with a glance or a word, while Henry dries and Ellory clears space at the counter.
Jackets come off hooks by the door as the noise lowers, conversations breaking into smaller pieces, goodbyes folding into plans for the next time like it’s already assumed, and I step into it with them, pulled along in a way that feels less like being included and more like being absorbed.
Outside, the air has cooled, the porch light catching as jackets are pulled on and goodbyes fold into easy, overlapping exits.
Gianna steps ahead, already halfway down the walk, while I pause at the top of the steps as Luca falls into place beside me, his hands settling into his pockets like he isn’t quite finished with something.
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon for the audit.” I zip up my jacket as I turn toward him.
He stills for a beat, his expression shifting—not disagreement, just a small pause that doesn’t quite resolve. “Tomorrow? I didn’t realize you were on my calendar. I’ll see you then.”
“One o’clock. Don’t be late. I’m going to impress you with my numbers.”
He smiles. “I’ll try to remember not to call you Chiara.”
“Please don’t.” I sigh. “Heather is trusting me a lot with this audit. That might send her over the edge if you did.”
Headlights sweep across the curb as the car pulls up, washing the front of the house in light. Victor steps out first, scanning the street before opening the rear door, while Jackson stays behind the wheel, engine running.
“Car’s ready,” Victor says.
Ciro’s hand settles at my back again, steady and familiar now, guiding me forward. I slide into the seat, and he follows, the door closing with a muted thud behind us.
Through the glass, Matteo and Ellory linger a second longer than the others, his gaze still on the car as we pull away, like he’s turning something over he hasn’t said out loud yet. He’s not the only one. None of this is sitting clean.