"Ms. Vitale must be very capable, then," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I've never seen Salvatore sit at the same table with any woman besides me."
Her tone was light, but every word carried weight.
Then she placed her phone casually beside her wine glass, nudging it forward just enough to be seen. It looked accidental.
But it wasn't.
I caught a glimpse of the screen.
Her profile picture.
It matched Salvatore's.
A couple photo.
Even their outfits today were coordinated. Same tones, same palette, down to the smallest details like their watches. Everything was deliberate, curated, expensive. The kind of matched presentation that in this world meant more than romance. It meant claim. It meant territory.
Under the warm lighting of the restaurant, they looked perfect.
Like a portrait of a Don and his donna.
I lowered my gaze, set my chopsticks down carefully, and stood up.
I didn't want to stay.
Before I could take a step, Adriana reached out and grabbed my wrist.
Her fingers were slender, her nails long and perfectly manicured.
They dug into my skin just enough to hurt, just enough to leave a mark, but hidden from Salvatore's line of sight.