Valentina POV
There are dinners.
Then there are Moretti family dinners.
The difference is volume.
By six-thirty, the dining room looked as though we were preparing for a small royal banquet.
Crystal glasses caught the warm glow of the chandeliers. White roses and olive branches stretched along the center of the thirty-foot dining table. Silver cutlery had been polished until it reflected every flicker of candlelight.
The staff moved with practiced efficiency.
Somewhere in the kitchens, I could already hear Chef Lorenzo loudly insisting that someone had overcooked the risotto.
Nobody dared argue with him.
Not if they wanted dessert.
Rosalia stood beside me, studying the table critically. She noticed every flaw: an unaligned napkin, a crumb out of place, the angle of candlelight.
