It was not a thought. It was not a memory. It was a physical sensation, a sudden, inexplicable tightening behind his sternum, as though someone had reached through his ribs and squeezed. He set down his glass of bourbon and stared at the far wall, his brow furrowed.
Mia.
He reached for his phone. He would call her. Just to confirm she had arrived safely. Just to hear her voice, even if it was sharp with anger, even if she hung up after two words. He needed to know.
His thumb hovered over her name in his contacts.
"I think you should let Mia cool down."
Vanessa Lestari's voice drifted from the doorway of the bedroom. She leaned against the frame in a silk robe, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, a glass of wine held loosely in her fingers. Her expression was soft, sympathetic, perfectly calibrated.
"She would have reached the estate by now. Give her the night."
Xavier looked at the phone. Then he set it down.
"You're right." His voice hardened, the brief flicker of concern buried beneath pride. "If I give in now, she'll be accustomed to throwing tantrums every time she doesn't get her way."
He did not call.
The next morning, Xavier dialed the Salvatore family compound. The morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the café where he sat, gilding the marble tabletop and the untouched espresso before him. He had chosen this place because it was Mia's favorite. He did not examine why.
The house staff picked up on the second ring.
"Is Mia still sleeping? She hasn't answered any of my calls." His tone was clipped, impatient, the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "Put her through. I'm at her favorite café. Ask her what she wants."
A pause. Too long.
"Don Salvatore... the Donna did not return last night."
The words landed like a slap. Xavier's hand tightened around the phone. For a moment, the café noise, the clinking of cups, the murmur of conversation, seemed to recede, replaced by the sound of his own pulse.
He told himself it was nothing. She was angry. She had gone to the office instead of coming home. She was punishing him with silence, the way she sometimes did, and he would not give her the satisfaction of panic.
He called her workplace.
"Is this Sara Benedetti? Mia's supervisor?"
"Yes." Sara's voice carried a note of surprise. She had never received a direct call from the young Don of the Salvatore Family before.