The Rossi dining hall was too quiet.
Adriana sat stiffly in her chair, her back ramrod straight, her hands resting carefully on her lap, the picture of composure. But beneath the silk of her gown, her skin prickled with sweat. The silence pressed down on her like a vice, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain and the occasional hiss of wine poured into crystal.
Her father hadn’t spoken more than three words all evening. Marco had remained equally silent, his gaze flicking from her to Luca with the cold sharpness of a hawk circling its prey. And Luca…
Luca hadn’t stopped watching her.
He sat across the table, his glass untouched, his jaw set tight. There was no charm in his smile tonight, no velvet in his voice. Just suspicion, and something darker that curled around
