His dark eyes met mine. Cold. Assessing. The same expression he wore when conducting Family business—when deciding whether a man would live or die based on his usefulness to the Volpe empire.
He didn't glance at the papers.
Didn't acknowledge what they represented.
Three years of marriage. A blood oath sworn before God and the Commission. An alliance between two Families that had cost my father political capital and my mother sleepless nights.
All of it reduced to a stack of legal documents soaking in spilled espresso.
A few seconds of silence stretched between us.
Then, as if deciding that confronting me wasn't worth the effort—as if I wasn't worth the effort—he released my wrist.
He walked around to Massima's side of the table.
Pulled napkins from the silver dispenser.
Carefully, gently, dabbed at the stains spreading across her skirt. His movements were solicitous. Protective. The movements of a man tending to something precious.
"Are you alright, Massima?" His voice was soft. Concerned. Human.
I stood there for a moment longer.
The afternoon sun was warm on my face, but I felt nothing but cold.
I didn't say another word.