Dinner felt staged in a way that was almost too subtle to point out, like everything had been arranged not to impress but to maintain.

The table was already set when I walked in, long and perfectly aligned, covered in dishes that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than something people actually ate.

Candles were lit despite the last light of the evening still filtering through the windows, and every chair had been taken except for one—mine. Of course it was.

I paused only for a second before stepping forward, aware of the eyes that followed without needing to look directly at them. Isabella was the first to break that weight, smiling immediately, bright and effortless as if this wasn't a room full of people who could decide someone's future with a single conversation.

She waved me over like this was normal, like this was just dinner.

"You're late," she said lightly, her tone teasing more than accusing.

I pulled the chair beside her and sat down, glancing at her briefly.

"I didn't know there was a schedule," I replied.

Cristiano's voice came from across the table before she could answer, already amused, already watching.

"There's always a schedule," he said.

"You're just not aware of it yet." I let out a quiet breath. "That's reassuring."

Beatrice acknowledged me with a small, controlled nod, polite but distant, while Giorgia sat at the center with that same composed presence that seemed to hold the room together without effort.

Antonio didn't bother hiding his gaze, his attention resting on me a moment longer than necessary, assessing, measuring, deciding something I wasn't part of.

I ignored it, focusing instead on the empty space across the table.

Damiano hadn't arrived yet, and for some reason that felt more noticeable than it should have. When he finally did, the shift in the room was immediate but quiet, like something had tightened slightly beneath the surface.

Conversations paused for just a fraction of a second before continuing, posture adjusted, attention sharpened.

And for a brief moment, his eyes met mine.

Just a second, barely anything, but enough to register before he looked away and took his seat like nothing had happened. Like everything was exactly as it should be.

Dinner moved forward with that same careful balance of normalcy and control, conversations flowing but never freely, every topic circling something else beneath it.

They spoke about business, but not directly—about movements, arrangements, territories disguised as logistics and agreements dressed as social exchanges. I sat there listening, catching fragments, piecing together meanings that weren't meant to be obvious.

Cristiano carried most of the lighter tone, shifting effortlessly between humor and provocation, while Isabella kept trying to pull me into something simpler, something normal.

At one point she leaned closer and asked, completely out of nowhere,

"What do you usually eat?" I blinked at her.

"Food." She frowned immediately.

"That's not helpful." Cristiano laughed softly from across the table.

"She's funny. Keep her." I glanced at him.

"I'm not a pet."

"That's debatable," he replied without missing a beat.

I rolled my eyes, but the exchange softened something at the table, just slightly, just enough to ease the tension for a moment.

It didn't last.

Antonio eventually set his glass down with quiet precision, the sound enough to shift the attention back where it mattered.

"So," he said, his tone measured, controlled, "how long do you plan to stay?" The question was simple, but it wasn't.

I looked at him calmly, matching his composure.

"Not long."

"How unfortunate," he replied, though there was no real disappointment in his voice.

I didn't answer, and the conversation moved on, but the weight of it stayed there, lingering beneath everything else.

The rest of dinner passed in that same rhythm—controlled, polite, layered with something sharper that no one addressed directly.

By the time it ended, I felt like I had been holding my breath without realizing it.

Chairs shifted as people stood, conversations breaking into smaller fragments as the structure dissolved into something looser, but not entirely relaxed.

I stood as well, glancing briefly toward Isabella. "I need air," I said quietly. She nodded immediately, as if she had been expecting that.

"The terrace is better at night," she said.

"I'll find it," I replied. She hesitated for a moment, like she wanted to follow, but something else caught her attention, and she stayed behind. That was fine.

I needed the space.

The hallway was quieter, the sound of the dining room fading behind me with each step. The house at night felt different, less observed, less structured, like it exhaled when the attention shifted elsewhere. Or maybe that was just me.

I turned a corner without thinking too much about where I was going—and stopped.

Of course he was there.

Damiano leaned slightly against the wall, like he had been there long enough to settle into it, like he had chosen that exact place for a reason. I crossed my arms lightly.

"You follow people now?" I asked. He pushed himself off the wall with slow ease.

"I live here."

"Convenient excuse." He stepped closer, not enough to invade space, but enough to be felt.

"You left dinner early," he said.

"So did you," I replied. A brief pause settled between us.

"I needed a break," I added.

He nodded once. "Understandable."

Silence followed, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It lingered, stretched, like it was waiting for something to shift.

"You handled them well," he said after a moment. I raised a brow slightly.

"That sounds like a compliment."

"It is." I studied him for a second, noticing the way the low light softened the sharpness he usually carried.

"They're intense," I said.

"That's one way to put it."

"And your grandfather hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Damiano replied.

"He just doesn't trust anything he can't control." I let out a quiet breath.

"That sounds worse."

"It is." That earned a small, almost involuntary laugh from me.

We stayed there longer than necessary, the space between us slowly closing again without either of us acknowledging it.

"You look different," he said suddenly. I frowned slightly.

"Different how?"

"Less defensive." I crossed my arms a bit tighter immediately.

"I'm always defensive."

A faint smirk touched his lips.

"There it is." I rolled my eyes but didn't move away.

"And you," I said, tilting my head slightly, "look like you're thinking too much."

"I am."

"About Volkov?"

"Yes." A pause followed. "And other things." I caught that, but I didn't push.

"You didn't answer me earlier," I said instead.

"About the plan." He exhaled slowly, looking away for just a second before meeting my gaze again.

"I don't like plans that rely on risk."

"And I don't like waiting."

"I know."

"And?" He held my gaze.

"We'll find something in between." It wasn't a refusal. It wasn't agreement either. It was something else—something closer to compromise.

We were closer again.

"Why don't we just do it"

"You're stubborn," he said quietly.

"So are you."

"That's different."

"It's really not." That faint smile returned, quick, subtle, like it slipped through before he could stop it.

And for a moment, everything else faded—the house, the pressure, the reason we were even there. It was just that space, that tension, that thing neither of us was naming.

A voice echoed faintly somewhere down the hall, distant but enough to break it. Reality settled back in place immediately.

I stepped back first.

"I need to— uhm go," I said. He held my gaze for a second longer.

"Sure... goodnight."

I turned and walked away, but the feeling didn't leave. It stayed there, quiet but undeniable, stronger than before and far harder to ignore.