I made my way toward where everyone was gathered for dinner, my pace deliberate—too deliberate, as if every step was me negotiating with myself whether I truly belonged there. I’d made sure I looked as presentable as possible, though with only two changes of clothes and a room that more closely resembled a pigsty than a living space, “presentable” was a generous word. Still, I’d straightened my shirt, the bandage wrapped on my forearm making me look kind of pathetic and badass at the same time, and put on the kind of face that said I’d been around fancy people before, even if I hadn’t.

An older woman—Clarissa, I’d learned—beckoned me over, inviting me to join the long table. I did, settling into a chair without much fuss. My eyes immediately drifted to the bowl in front of me, and when I finally reached for the food, it was with the hunger of a man who hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. I ate with gusto, barely pausing to speak, though not without noticing the way some glanced at me—curious, maybe a little amused.

At the head of the table sat Don Torrisi, his booming laugh and lively chatter filling the space as he conversed with his closest associates. Eventually, Luca slid into the seat next to me, introducing me quietly to some of the other people within the Don’s circle. I nodded along, half-listening, more concerned with chewing and swallowing than remembering names.

Then, in the midst of the easy chatter, Don Torrisi rose from his chair, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. The room hushed. I looked up—and froze. Beside the Don stood a young woman, her presence commanding without effort. Isabella Torrisi. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. My lips parted slightly, and if I’d had any less self-control, my jaw would’ve hit the table. She was stunning—elegant, radiant, the kind of beautiful that wasn’t just seen but felt.

But then—beside her—a young man, close to her age, maybe even younger. My gaze lingered just a beat too long on him, tracing the line of his jaw, the cut of his suit, the way his mouth tilted when he smiled faintly at something someone whispered to him. I didn’t even register the faint thud of my own pulse until reality nudged me—this wasn’t just some stranger. This was Isabella’s brother.

Don Torrisi was saying something—something about Isabella’s birthday, about celebration and gratitude—but my focus kept slipping. I looked from Isabella to her brother and back again, my chest tightening in a way I refused to name. My spoon hung loosely in my fingers, the chatter of the room distant against the sound of my own thoughts. I told myself I was just appreciating beauty when I saw it. That’s all. Nothing more.

I wasn’t fooling myself. Yeah, definitely not when my eyes keep darting over Isabella's brother and then Isabella and then back to him again...

Madonna... what the hell is this? I thought, pulse quickening. The girl’s stunning, sure, but— My eyes flicked back to the young man before quickly shifting away, as if I’d been caught. ...her brother? I blinked before I sighed and stood up with the others, clapping for whatever it was–probably for Isabella.

Great. First dinner here and I'm already in trouble.