SERAFINA
The dining room still smells like the osso buco we barely touched. My fork sits abandoned on fine china, next to a wine glass I never lifted to my lips. I can't eat when I'm this angry, and right now, fury is the only thing keeping me warm in this cold, sterile penthouse.
Lorenzo stands across from me, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looks like he's been carved from marble—beautiful and completely unmovable. His gray eyes are storm clouds tonight, darker than I've ever seen them.
"Sofia Valentino," he says, voice low and dangerous. "You met with Sofia Valentino."
I don't bother asking how he found out. Of course, he has people watching me. I'd be insulted if he didn't—it would mean he's stupid, and Lorenzo Moretti is many things, but stupid isn't one of them.
"Yes," I say simply.
