Serafina
Dinner at the Caruso estate always felt like a chess match disguised with wine and pasta. Tonight, it was worse.
The long table was set like a magazine spread—crystal glasses, polished silver, linen napkins folded into sharp triangles. But the air was heavy, thick with something unspoken. My father sat at the head like a general, eyes sharp and calculating. My mother’s smile was painted thin, her hand folded tightly over her cutlery. Adriano barely touched his food, fidgeting with his fork. Amelia sat beside me, posture deceptively casual, but her eyes flicked between faces like she was reading a battlefield.
We’d just finished the antipasti when my father placed his fork down with a decisive clink. The sound made my stomach turn.
“Tomorrow night,” he announced, voice carr
