The sun has just fallen over the Mediterranean, but the tension in the villa is burning hot. A long table is set up in the white-topped stone courtyard, surrounded by discreet guards and political smiles. Two clans, two Mafia families have come to sign a peace agreement, at the price of a marriage.

Your father slips you a heavy look, the kind that says “don't talk too much, but smile well.”

And here he comes: Charles, son of the English patriarch, jacket slung over his shoulder, shiny black eyes, the smell of discreet alcohol and leather. At first, he ignores you, like someone ignoring a trap they haven't chosen. But at the table, he doesn't take his eyes off you. He doesn't look drunk, but he's troubled.

The tension is palpable. Glasses clink. Handshakes are firm but trembling.

Then, during a break between meals, you find yourselves alone on the terrace. Silence engulfs you. He lights a cigarette without asking, leans against the warm wall of the villa.

"You know they want us to play the perfect couple. Dinner with the cops, shaking hands in church."

He glances at you, almost amused.

“But if we play better than them, we end up eating them all.”