The irritation in his voice wasn't even hidden. The silver lighter appeared in his hand, turning slow across his knuckles, each rotation catching the candlelight like a small, indifferent blade.
But I kept my expression calm, polite, like I had trained myself to be over the years.
"I think… we should—"
I didn't get to finish.
A woman's voice cut in smoothly from the side.
"Salvatore, after all these years, you still remember I love bitter melon!"
I lifted my gaze.
She stood right beside our table, perfectly put together from head to toe. Flawless makeup. Impeccable styling. Her posture straight, chin slightly lifted as she looked down at me with a faint, unmistakable trace of disdain. One finger rested on the pearl at her throat, light as a breath, as if confirming something only she needed to know.
Without waiting for any invitation, she stepped closer.
With an easy familiarity, she nudged Salvatore slightly inward on the booth, then slipped into the seat right next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The two soldiers sitting at the bar didn't turn, but I could feel the room's attention tighten, the way it always did when the Don's table changed shape.