He poured another glass and said he'd take a second shot for what he'd said that day. He drank it, and the apology sat between us like a stone neither of us wanted to pick up.

Right after that, the others jumped in. Dario ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Simone before offering his own version of contrition. Luca tilted his chin up slightly before mumbling something about not meaning any disrespect. The words came quickly, rehearsed, a chorus of men who'd been told to perform and were performing.

Seeing the tension ease, Simone took charge. He straightened in his seat, gestured broadly, and told everyone to eat. The waiters appeared. Plates were set down. For a few minutes, the room sounded almost normal.

Then Silvana stood up.

She held a glass of juice, because of course she couldn't drink, and her free hand rose to the hollow of her throat. Two fingers resting there, light as a whisper. The room shifted. Conversations didn't stop, exactly, but they thinned, the way sound thins when everyone starts listening without wanting to be caught doing it.

"Grazia, I want to apologize to you too." Her voice was warm, pitched perfectly for an audience. "Simone and I had a past, so with our situation now, I think I've made things difficult for you."

Simone moved immediately. "Hey, Silvana, no. You didn't do anything wrong."

His thumb traced the edge of his jaw. Slowly. The gesture I'd learned to recognize in our first year together. The one that meant a lie was coming, or had just arrived, or had been living in his mouth so long he'd forgotten it was there.

Then he turned to me, and his expression shifted to something that was supposed to look earnest. "Darling, I'm sorry. I admit I didn't handle this situation well."

"Alright," I said. My voice was level. The room was quiet enough to hear the ice settling in someone's glass. "But someone else wants to hear you both apologize too."

Every head at the table turned toward me.

Then the door swung open.

He walked in sharp and unhurried, dressed in a dark suit cut so precisely it looked like armor. The kind of man who entered a room and changed its temperature without raising his voice or lifting a hand.

"W-why are you here?" Silvana stammered, her face draining of color, the glass of juice trembling in her grip.

Her husband stood in the doorway, and the room went very still.