The gravel crunches under our shoes as we walk up to the villa—white stone with columns thick enough to crush a man. My hand doesn’t leave hers. Not even once.

I’m gripping too tight. I always do when I’m nervous, which is rare, but tonight, my father’s home feels more like a pressure cooker than a sanctuary. And she's the only thing keeping my heart from doing something reckless.

“A little looser, amore,” she whispers, smiling up at me.

I ease the grip. Barely.

The servants open the double doors. The smell hits first—lamb roasted with rosemary, seafood risotto swimming in saffron and butter, grilled eggplant kissed by smoke. Olives in a crystal bowl, because my mother’s still obsessed with aesthetics.

The table’s long enough to seat a Roman legion. Everyone turns as we step in. Eyes skim over me, but linger on her.

That’s mistake number one.

I stare down the cousin who glances at her twice. He looks away fast, and he better. He’s already on a list.

“Lazaro,” my mother coos. Her cheeks are powdered too heavily, and her hug smells like dried lavender and champagne.

“Mama.” I kiss her cheek once, then guide my wife in.

I pull out her chair. She’s delicate next to this monstrous table, like a lily planted in a minefield. She brushes her hand across the white tablecloth, eyes dancing at the shine of silver and glass. She doesn’t know the things I’ve done to protect this calm. I never let her.

I uncork the bottle of red I brought myself—hand-carried from a friend in Florence, sealed tight, marked. I pour her glass first, sniff it once, then sip it. Smooth. No bitterness. No almond.

“Only the best,” I murmur to her.

“You’re always so dramatic,” she giggles softly.

If only she knew.

I lean in, flicking the ash from my cigarette into a porcelain tray shaped like a lion. I don't eat until I’ve checked everything. First, the olives—I crack one open with my knife, dig out the pit. Clean.

Risotto—she loves it. I take a spoonful and taste it, swishing it around like a wine taster judging poison instead of tannins.

“Okay,” I finally say. She claps a little, happy like a girl.

“Such a gentleman,” one of my uncles says from the far end of the table, snorting.

I don’t respond. I reach for my wine again and stare him down through the haze of smoke. He’s got grease on his chin, and more on his conscience. He’s a loudmouth with weak hands.

I shift slightly—just enough to let the butt of my pistol kiss my rib. I feel better knowing it’s there. The knife in my boot has a thin, curved blade, designed for slipping between ribs. It never clinks.

As my wife eats, she tells my mother about the new herbs she planted on our terrace. Basil, sage, lavender. Her voice is music. I can hear it through the din of silverware and tension.

She’s the only thing in this world that makes me pray. Not to God, but to the silence—that it will keep her safe. That she’ll never have to know the blood beneath my fingernails.

I watch her closely as she chews. Her lips are full, soft. I know the shape of her smile like I know the weight of a trigger.

My cousin Marco leans over to pass her a napkin she doesn’t need. His fingers brush hers.

I stand up. Slowly.

The room hushes like it knows what’s coming.

“Marco,” I say, voice low.

He freezes. “Just—uh, napkin.”

I nod. Then I walk behind him, hand resting on his shoulder like a father correcting a child. I squeeze—hard enough to send a message, soft enough not to stain the linen.

“Ask me first next time,” I murmur.

He nods fast. My wife doesn’t look up—she’s too kind, too used to my storms.

I sit again besides her, sliding my hand into hers, a nervous habit.