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Fuck.
"This might be the best thing I've ever tasted," Melania declares, already scooping another piece. Her shoulders have relaxed completely, the tension she carried throughout dinner melting away.
"Ettore will be pleased," Damiano says, his own dessert barely touched. "He rarely receives such enthusiastic appreciation. I've always believed that how someone responds to pleasure reveals their true nature."
His words carry deeper meaning but Melania is too captivated by her dessert to notice the assessment occuring. This is what Damiano wanted—to see her unguarded, authentic. Not the poised daughter of Antonio Lombardi, not the woman fighting for her life, but simply Melania.
And what he's seeing—what we're all seeing—is a woman who finds joy in simple pleasures, who hasn't been completely hardened by her circumstances.
I watch Melania set down her spoon, having demolished the tiramisu with an enthusiasm that makes my nerves burst with new energy. The genuine pleasure on her face stands in stark contrast to the world we inhabit—a reminder of innocence in a place where such things rarely survive.
Damiano clears his throat, drawing her attention. "I must apologize, Melania." His voice carries the smooth authority that commands respect across multiple continents. "Under different circumstances you wouldn't be surrounded solely by men at this table."
Melania's eyebrow lifts slightly, curiosity replacing the bliss of dessert.
"Lucrezia would have been here to keep you company." Damiano's expression softens at the mention of his sister. "She has a way of cutting through the testosterone in the room. Ensures we don't bore our guests with business talk."
"I've heard about Lucrezia," Melania says, her fingers finding mine under the table. "She sounds formidable."
A genuine smile crosses Damiano's face. "That's one word for her. Headstrong is another." He takes a sip of port.
"Will they be safe there?" Melania asks, impressing me with her concern for people she's never met.
Damiano nods. "Safer than here, with Antonio and Raymond turning the city inside out. Our family compound in Tuscany has security that rivals the Vatican."
"Perhaps when this is over," I find myself saying, "you'll have the chance to meet her." The words emerge before I can analyze them, a future casually offered that I hadn't consciously formulated.
Melania's eyes find mine, an unreadable story passing through them.
"I think she'd like that," Damiano says, studying both of us with renewed interest. "Though I warn you, she asks questions that would make a federal prosecutor uncomfortable."
A small laugh escapes Melania. "I look forward to it."
I catch Damiano's subtle signal, a barely perceptible nod that most would miss. He taps his finger twice against his wine glass, the crystal producing a soft chime that cuts through the comfortable silence that's settled over the table.
"Noah, Matteo, Daniel—I need you to handle those matters we discussed earlier," Damiano says, his tone casual but carrying unmistakable authority.
The men respond without question, chairs scraping hardwood as they rise in unison. Noah's calculating gaze sweeps over Melania one final time before he nods respectfully toward Damiano.
When the door closes behind them only the four of us remain—Damiano, Enzo, Melania and me. The atmosphere shifts instantly, the amiable dinner facade dropping away. Whatever comes next will determine everything.
Melania's hand reaches for mine under the table, her fingers cool in my palm. I squeeze gently, a silent reassurance that, whatever Damiano has planned, she won't face it alone.
"Now," Damiano says, leaning forward slightly, his hands folded before him. "Let's discuss what happens next."
Enzo shifts in his chair, his massive frame making the furniture seem almost child size. His eyes meet mine—we've been through countless negotiations, interrogations and death sentences together. But this feels different.
Melania elevates her posture, lifting her chin with that quiet defiance I've come to admire.
I feel a surge of pride watching her prepare to face whatever's coming.
"I imagine you've wondered why we intervened on your wedding day," Damiano says, his voice deceptively casual as he swirls the remaining wine in his glass.
Melania's fingers tighten around mine under the table. "The thought had crossed my mind," she replies, matching his tone with remarkable composure.
I realize with a jolt that we've never fully discussed this. Between gunfights, hacking sessions, and everything else that's happened between us, I never explained why I was waiting outside her family estate that day. I've given her some explanation but not the whole picture.
"Your father owes us money," Damiano states flatly. "A significant amount."