The only thing sharper than the knives on the table were the words waiting to be unsheathed.
Emilia had wanted something quiet. A little candlelight. A little normalcy. Just one night where the past didn’t show up dressed in tailored suits and whiskey smiles.
She wore a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun, soft gold hoops catching the dim, ambient light of La Violetta. Beside her, Johnny scrolled through his phone at the host stand while she ran her fingertips nervously along the leather strap of her purse.
“I made the reservation under Carter,” Johnny said, his tone polite but firm. “Should be for two. Seven-thirty.”
The hostess tapped at her screen, then gave a small frown. “I’m sorry, sir. It looks like the reservation was cance
