Dinner unfolded with a strange, almost domestic calm that felt completely detached from the violence of the afternoon. The long table was set beneath warm interior lighting, crystal glasses catching soft reflections, silverware aligned with obsessive precision. If someone walked in without context, they might have believed this was simply a wealthy family meal — not the headquarters of a man planning revenge, not the refuge of a kidnapped woman, not a house that had watched blood spill on its grass only hours before.

Francesco, seated across from her, watched Katia with open admiration that bordered on boyish fascination. He always did. His smile came easily, his eyes warm in a way that felt almost out of place in a family like this. Camilla studied him discreetly, wondering — not for the first time — how a man so visibly gentle could belong to the same bloodline as Damiano. Francesco did not carry hardness in his shoulders, nor the constant vigilance in his gaze. He seemed too sensitive, too unguarded.

If he knew Camilla instead of Katia, she thought, he would probably scream and run.

He didn't look like someone who could pull a trigger without losing sleep.

The dinner remained quiet for several minutes — cutlery, glass, the faint rustle of linen — until Francesco finally broke the silence, as if he could not contain himself any longer.

"You should let her breathe, Damiano," he said, gesturing lightly toward Katia with his fork. "She may be kidnapped, yes, but even prisoners deserve the minimum. I could take her out tonight. Fresh air. Music. She might even smile."

Damiano didn't look up from his glass.

"That is out of the question," he said evenly. "She does not stay out of my sight."

Francesco leaned back, amusement flickering in his expression. "Possessive much, brother?"

"It is not about possession," Damiano replied, his tone calm but immovable. "It is about doing what must be done to avenge our father's soul."

Francesco's smile faded into something more tired, more familiar. "Sure. And while you do that, you're just making Nonno angrier."

"Nonno understands this is necessary."

"Nonno wants you back in Tuscany," Francesco countered, "dealing with the Shark."

Damiano exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with measured control. "Grandfather knows how to handle Don Vito better than I do."

Francesco's eyes sharpened. "That's true... until Rossetti decides to play dirty."

"Vito has many flaws," Damiano said, "but he follows the rules."

"Until he doesn't," Francesco replied quickly. "And the next thing you know, he steals from us and has us killed in our sleep."

"That will not happen, Franc."

Francesco studied him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. "Whatever you say, brother."

Silence returned briefly, thick with old arguments and older loyalties.

Then Francesco glanced back at Katia, his lighter tone returning as if switching masks. "So... about the girl. Let me take her out tonight. I won't take my eyes off her."

"Tempting offer," Damiano said dryly, "but I need her for something tomorrow."

Francesco laughed under his breath. "Of course you do. I can never have any fun."

"You have too much fun," Damiano replied, emphasizing the last word in a way that carried both warning and weary familiarity.

Francesco lifted his hands in surrender. "Then you should send me back to Mama and let me play guard dog. You handle Volkov."

Damiano met his eyes. "That is exactly what you should do."

Francesco nodded slowly, accepting the inevitability of it. "I wouldn't expect anything else from you, big brother."

The tension dissolved into quiet again, but the air remained layered — family loyalty, old grief, unspoken fears, and a war that was no longer contained to distant enemies.

Across the table, Camilla lowered her gaze to her plate, aware that in this house she was both irrelevant and central, a bargaining chip and a witness, a captive and a catalyst.

And somewhere beneath the surface of polite conversation and expensive wine, the storm continued to gather.

stretch, pushing his chair back across the polished floor with a low scrape. The easy charm he carried like a second skin slipped slightly, revealing something sharper beneath.

"You know," he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on his brother, "it's very strange to sit here pretending we're a normal family having dinner when half the region wants you dead and the other half wants your seat."

Damiano didn't answer immediately. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, folded it with deliberate precision, and set it beside his plate.

"We've never been normal," he replied.

Francesco's smile returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "No. But we used to pretend better."

Silence settled between them, dense with history neither of them needed to speak aloud.

Francesco glanced once more at Katia — warm, regretful, amused all at once — then stepped back from the table.

"Try not to suffocate her, fratello," he added softly. "Even birds in golden cages stop singing."

Damiano's gaze hardened. "Good night, Francesco."

Francesco lifted his hands in surrender, but the look he gave his brother carried a quiet warning before he turned and left.

The sound of the door closing echoed longer than it should have.

⸻

The walk back to Damiano's room was wordless.

Their footsteps moved in quiet rhythm through the corridor, guards nodding respectfully as they passed. The house had settled into its nocturnal hush — distant clinks of dishes being cleared, low murmurs from staff quarters, the faint whisper of wind brushing the gardens.

Inside the room, the door shut behind them with a soft click.

And suddenly the air felt smaller.

Charged.

He removed his jacket and set it aside with controlled movements, as if each gesture required intention. She crossed to the bed, pulling pillows free with unnecessary force, arranging them like a barrier before lying down.

Neither spoke.

The silence stretched.

Then he said it.

"I would clearly never think of you like that."

Her head turned slowly toward him.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he replied evenly, loosening the cuffs of his shirt, "that I have higher standards."

She stared at him for a beat — then looked him up and down with theatrical disgust.

"That's great," she said coolly. "Because honestly, so do I."

He watched her, unreadable.

She dropped onto the pillows and added, almost lazily:

"I would rather do your brother."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, taken aback before he could stop himself.

Something flickered across his face — surprise, offense, something sharper — but it vanished just as quickly.

He stepped closer.

"Repeat that."

She didn't even open her eyes. "You heard me."

His head tilted slightly, studying her in a way that felt far too attentive.

And then, almost casually, he said:

"That's strange. Considering how attentively you were studying my torso this morning."

She snorted, eyes opening.

"You were dreaming."

He didn't move.

"Don't say torso," she added, wrinkling her nose. "That's weird."

He nodded once, solemnly.

"Fine. You were looking at my abdominals. And not just that — you gave me a full up-and-down like you were hungry."

She stared at him as if he had just lost his mind.

"Yes," she said dryly. "I was hungry. For breakfast."

His eyebrow lifted.

She immediately shook her head. "Not that type of breakfast, you pervert."

"I didn't say a word," he defended calmly.

"Yeah," she shot back, turning onto her side and pulling the blanket up, "you didn't need to."

The silence that followed her last remark did not dissolve the tension in the room — it thickened it. It pressed against the walls, lingered between breaths, settled into the space between them like something alive.

He studied her for a long moment, then said flatly, "You're lying."

She didn't move. "About what?"

"I saw you checking me out."

Her eyes opened slowly, annoyance flickering across her face. "I would prefer anyone else over you."

A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "Everyone prefers me."

She pushed herself up on one elbow, incredulous. "You are unbelievably full of yourself."

"No," he replied calmly. "I just know the truth. No one can resist me."

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Is that packed with your mafia personality? Or do they hand out manuals when you become a boss? Step one: think you're a sex god."

He didn't even blink. "I know women."

"You don't know me."

He held her gaze for a long beat, then gave a small, almost thoughtful nod.

"Then it won't be a problem if I sleep on the bed too."

She frowned instantly, suspicion flashing across her face.

The air between them sharpened, tight with challenge.

Out of sheer stubbornness — out of irritation, pride, and the relentless need to win even the smallest battle — she said:

"Fine. Yes. Sleep wherever you want."

His eyebrow lifted slightly, as if he hadn't expected her to accept.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the hem of his shirt.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He pulled it over his head.

Not hurried.

Not casual.

Provocative.

The movement stretched across his shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing as the fabric slid away. His chest caught the low lamplight, lines of strength and old scars briefly revealed before he dropped the shirt onto the chair.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Her eyes betrayed her for half a second — one quick, involuntary flicker downward before she snapped them back to his face.

He saw it.

Of course he did.

The smallest hint of satisfaction touched his expression.

She rolled her eyes immediately, turning onto her back as if the ceiling were suddenly fascinating.

"Congratulations," she muttered. "You have a torso. Millions of men do."

"Abdominals," he corrected calmly.

She groaned. "Stop saying that."

He moved to the other side of the bed, pulling back the blanket with unhurried precision, as if the act were entirely ordinary and not a strategic escalation of their silent war.

The mattress dipped as he lay down, leaving a careful, deliberate distance between them — close enough to feel his presence, far enough to maintain the illusion of space.

Neither looked at the other.

Neither relaxed.

The silence stretched again, charged and restless.

"You're tense," he observed after a moment.

"You're exhausting," she shot back.

A quiet breath left him — almost a laugh, almost not.

They lay there, separated by inches and pride, heat and stubbornness, the echo of their argument still alive in the dark.