Dangerously Yours

The Dinner

The clock reads six-fifty when Mira reappears with a knock. ''You should come down,'' she says. ''He doesn't like waiting.''

I smooth the borrowed dress she left for me—too expensive, too tight across the ribs—and followed her down the curved staircase. The air smells of roasted garlic and wine. Low laughter filters from the dining room before we even turn the corner.

The table stretches half the room, dark wood gleaming under the crystal light. Elijah sits at the head, sleeves rolled, posture easy but commanding. Around him are five others, all turning to look at me at once: men built from sharp edges and weariness.

Elijah gestures to the chair to his right. ''Sit.''

Every cell in me wants to turn and leave. I take the seat anyway. Mira slips quietly behind me to pour wine before fading into the background.

Elijah's voice cuts through the hum. ''You've met none of them properly. That changes tonight.''

He nods towards the man directly across from me. ''Luca Voss.''

Luca inclines his head politely. Clean features, tailored suit, eyes so pale they seem colorless. He's the calm before storms.

Next to him sits a younger man with restless hands drumming against his thigh. ''Marco Silva,'' Elijah adds.

Marco gives a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. ''Didn't think we'd see you again,'' he says, tone low but unmistakably remembering. The night at the club flashes vivid—his group in the private room.

Elijah's look silences him instantly.

''To his right,'' Elijah continues smoothly, ''Aiden Korr— our eyes and ears.''

Aiden lifts his glass in a restrained gesture, each word precise when he finally speaks. ''Good to have a civilian perspective around here, Ms. Valentine.''

I manage a nod.

At the far end is Rafa Leone, lean, steady, with grease marks under his nails. ''Weapons and transport,'' Elijah says.

Rafa's grin is grief but genuine. ''We don't all bite.''

From the doorway comes another voice, melodic with steel beneath it. ''Speak for yourself, Leone.''

Elijah's mouth curves minutely. ''And that's Isla Moretti.''

''Newest recruit,'' she says dryly, sliding into a chair opposite me. ''Or so I'm told.''

''Consider yourself oriented.'' Elijah replies.

The meal begins—served courses too elegant for conversation about what these people do when they leave this house. Plates glide in, disappear, replaced by wine. For a while, I listen. They trade shorthand fragments of operations, names I don't understand. The talk is quiet, precise, never careless.

Marco's restless energy fills the few silences. ''You heard about DeSoto's crew down on Pier Nine?'' he asks. ''Gone by dawn. The whole dock cleared.''

Elijah doesn't look up from his plate. ''That's why we stay ahead.''

Rafa leans back. ''Word is they were funded by someone out east.''

''Then cut the supply,'' Elijah answers simply.

There's no dramatics, no threats, just orders stated like weather reports. It unnerves me more than if they'd bragged.

Luca studies my untouched food. ''You don't eat?''

''Hard to, under surveillance.''

He allows himself a faint smile. ''Fair.''

Elijah's knife pauses a fraction. ''You will need your strength here. Eat.''

The words sound like a command and concern twisted together. I obey, mostly because everyone else waits for me to move.

Halfway through dinner, conversations drift back to small, oddly normal things—new security vehicles, a supplier in Naples, someone's dog tearing apart armory cables. The normality of it makes the earlier memory of blood and gravel feel even more surreal.

When dessert appears, Isla leans slightly toward me. ''You settle in, okay?''

''As well as someone can when they're not allowed to leave.''

''Could be worse,'' she says. ''At least you're not on rotation tonight.''

Marco chuckles under his breath. ''Don't remind me.''

I glance at him, careful. ''Rotation?''

''Jobs,'' he says, eyes flickering to Elijah for permission that doesn't come. ''Outside work. Keeps us sharp.''

The way he says outside makes my skin prickle.

Elijah sets down his glass. ''That's enough talk for tonight.'' His glance sweeps the table, soft but final.

When he stands, so do they. No one moves until he leaves.

He circles behind my chair before heading out, ''Tomorrow, Isla will take you through the house properly. You'll shadow her until I decide otherwise.''

I look up at him. ''And if I say no?''

His voice lowers so only I can hear. ''Then you'll prove you still haven't learned how here works.''

He's gone before I can react, leaving the soft murmur of chairs and the clink of glass.

Marco huffs a low laugh. ''Welcome to the family, Sweetheart.''

''Don't call me that,'' I snap automatically.

Isla's smile is small but approving. ''Good answer.'' She rises, resting a hand briefly on my shoulder as she passes. ''Come find me in the morning. I'll show you how survival works in this circus.''

When they've all gone, I remain at the table, the echoes of their voices settling into the walls. Their world feels colder closer, but also—worryingly—alive.

And somewhere upstairs, I know Elijah is aware that the ice has cracked just enough.