The room was not lit so much as permitted to glow.
Firelight slid across marble veined like old scars, touching nothing for long. Don Vittorio preferred it that way. Shadows, like people, revealed more when they were uncertain.
He did not rise when Lucia De Luca entered.
She noticed. Of course she did.
"Sit," he said mildly, fingers steepled. "You look offended."
Lucia smiled—sharp, rehearsed. "I look cautious. There's a difference."
He chuckled. "Ah. A De Luca who still remembers caution. How refreshing."
She did not sit.
"I didn't come for compliments," she said. "You sent for me."
"Yes." His gaze drifted, as though already bored. "And you came."
Lucia folded her arms. "Curiosity is not consent."
"Of course not." He leaned back. "But it is the doorway."
She exhaled through her nose. "Get to the point before I decide this is horse shit."
That earned a laugh. Genuine. Appreciative.
"Good," Vittorio said. "I'd have been disappointed if you'd softened."
