Nico moved before the last syllable left Ginevra's mouth. He crossed the room in two strides and gathered her against him, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head as though she were something fragile, something precious. The shift in his body was immediate: every line of him rearranged itself from the man who had been staring me down into the man performing devotion. I had watched that transformation a hundred times. I knew the choreography by heart.
His eyes found mine over Ginevra's shoulder, and they were incandescent with fury — the kind of fury that men in this life reserved for public disrespect, for challenges to their authority that could not go unanswered.
"Apologize. Now."
The room was too still. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock marked the seconds. One of Nico's soldiers stood near the hallway entrance, arms folded, gaze fixed on a neutral point on the wall — the studied blankness of a man who had learned long ago not to witness anything that might later require testimony. The air smelled of espresso and Ginevra's perfume, something cloying and sweet that clung to every surface she touched.