Still so polite,” Elena says, straightening with an easy, practiced grace. “I was beginning to think Sicily had tamed you.”
Her perfume hangs in the air—expensive, floral, designed to linger.
I force my fingers to unclench around my napkin.
“And you must be…” she turns to me with a bright, curious smile, as if she hasn’t already cataloged every rumor attached to my name, “…Luna.”
Her Italian is smooth, accented in that high‑society way that makes everything sound like a compliment and an insult at once.
“Valentine,” I say. “Sometimes.”
Her gaze flicks to the ring on my finger, then back to my face. “And sometimes…Moretti?” she asks lightly.
“Depends who’s asking,” I murmur.
Dante’s hand is still on my knee under the table, heavy and unmoving. Every small shift of his fingers feels
