Page 141 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

I try to place the boy.

Where did I see him before?

The tilt of his chin.

The way he held the bottle.

Not like a server.

Like someone trained to mimic a server.

The details are wrong in the smallest ways.

Then it hits me.

Rossi gala.

Ten years ago.

A celebration thrown after the southern accord was signed.

A party with too many cameras, too many allies disguised as enemies.

I was nineteen, wearing a black silk gown with silver embroidery shaped like vines.

Rafa had paraded me through the halls like a trophy, then vanished when it counted.

I had retreated to the corridor behind the service wing to catch my breath.

That boy—this boy—was there.

He wasn’t a guest.

He was watching one.

His eyes weren’t on the wine.

They were on the exits.

My breath snags.

"Don’t drink," I say softly.

A guest stares at me.

"What?"

But it’s too late.

Valentina’s goblet is half-empty.

Luca is already pushing his chair back, frowning.

I rise sharply.

Valentina blinks at me.

"Gianna?"