"Ms. Vitale must be very capable, then," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I've never seen Salvatore sit at the same table with any woman besides me."
Her tone was light, but every word carried weight.
Then she placed her phone casually beside her wine glass, nudging it forward just enough to be seen. It looked accidental.
But it wasn't.
I caught a glimpse of the screen.
Her profile picture.
It matched Salvatore's.
A couple photo.
Even their outfits today were coordinated. Same tones, same palette, down to the smallest details like their watches. Everything was deliberate, curated, expensive. The kind of matched presentation that in this world meant more than romance. It meant claim. It meant territory.
Under the warm lighting of the restaurant, they looked perfect.
Like a portrait of a Don and his donna.
I lowered my gaze, set my chopsticks down carefully, and stood up.
I didn't want to stay.
Before I could take a step, Adriana reached out and grabbed my wrist.
Her fingers were slender, her nails long and perfectly manicured.
They dug into my skin just enough to hurt, just enough to leave a mark, but hidden from Salvatore's line of sight.
"Miss Vitale," she said softly, her voice laced with feigned concern, "you're leaving already? Did I say something wrong?"
Her eyes shimmered, almost as if she were genuinely apologetic.
"Let me apologize, okay?"
I didn't have the patience for this.
Didn't have the energy to play along with someone pretending to be all sweetness and innocence.
I pulled my hand back sharply, breaking free from her grip.
Just as I lowered my eyes to check my wrist, I saw it: thin red marks where her nails had dug in, one of them already starting to bead with blood.
Before I could even process it, everything happened in an instant.
Adriana suddenly lifted her own hand and swung it outward.
A loud smack echoed through the restaurant.
A little boy standing nearby was struck across the face.
His cry broke out immediately, sharp and piercing as he clutched his cheek, tears spilling down as he began sobbing uncontrollably. Two fingers hooked into the hem of his sweater, twisting the fabric tight, and he couldn't look up.
The entire room went quiet for a split second. The Sinatra record between tracks. The clink of silverware stopping at three separate tables. A stillness that in any Family-friendly place meant someone important was watching.