I looked back at Alessandro’s glass.

The wine seemed to have a faint, oily sheen on the surface under the chandelier light.

Alessandro brought the glass to his lips.

“Drink, my love,” he whispered to me, gesturing to my own untouched glass.

I reached for my glass, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Wait,” Matteo said suddenly, his voice sharp.

Every head at the table turned to look at him.

Matteo was staring at the servant near the door.

The servant took a step backward, his back hitting the heavy oak paneling.

Alessandro paused, the rim of his glass resting against his lower lip.

“What is it, Matteo?” Alessandro asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The room went completely silent except for the sound of the rain outside.

A phone in Gianni’s pocket began to buzz, the vibration loud against the wooden table.

“Matteo,” Alessandro said, his tone sharpening with a sudden, rare irritation. “Lower your hand.”

Matteo did not look at his uncle.

His eyes remained locked on the servant standing near the door, whose fingers were twitching against the seams of his black trousers.