“He did not pour that wine from the decanter on the sideboard,” Matteo said, his voice flat, dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.

The servant’s eyes went wide.

He lunged toward the heavy double doors of the dining hall, his leather-soled shoes slipping slightly on the polished marble.

“Stop him!” Gianni shouted, his hand already diving inside his jacket.

But Alessandro only sighed, a sound of deep, tired pride that had survived decades of close calls.

“We do not ruin a wedding feast for ghosts, Matteo,” Alessandro said, his gaze fixed on me, his eyes clouded with a stubborn arrogance.

Before anyone could reach him, the old man raised his glass and took a long, deep swallow, as if to prove his absolute authority over the room.

I watched the dark red liquid disappear down his throat, my breath caught in my windpipe.

The glass came down on the table with a soft, clean clink.

For a second, there was no sound but the rain drumming against the high glass windows of the villa.

Then Alessandro’s hand began to shake.