Page 108 of Fire and Silk

I open the back seat door. He’s already there.

He doesn’t look up.

I settle beside him, careful not to let my leg brush his. The silence stretches as Matteo closes the driver’s door and starts the engine.

The city blurs past the windows. Lights bloom across the windscreen as we move into Melbourne. The streets shift—narrow lanes, wide boulevards, a steady uptick in polished glass and stone. The restaurant sits on the corner of a terrace-lined avenue, its entrance marked by a wrought iron awning and two valets in black gloves.

Matteo parks just past the front arch.

A man in a fitted tuxedo meets us at the curb, one hand behind his back, the other gesturing toward the door. He nods to Severo first, then me.

“This way, Signore, Signora.”

We follow.

Inside, the lobby is quiet but alive. The floors are dark wood; the walls lit with subtle sconces. A curved glass display of vintage wine runs the length of one side. No music. Just the soft clink of cutlery behind closed doors.

The host guides us down a long corridor. Past the open dining floor. Through a velvet-lined partition.

Private room.

Mico is already inside.

He stands when he sees me.

His eyes search mine for a second too long, then flick to my dress. He steps forward and leans in. His lips brush my cheek.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

I nod.

He turns to Severo.

“Dante.”

His tone is clipped. Polite.

Severo says nothing. He walks past and sits.

I lower myself into the chair opposite Mico. The linen napkin is already folded perfectly across the place setting.

A server in a black vest sets down the first course—duck carpaccio, shaved artichokes, warm bread brushed with truffle butter. A second follows with the wine, pouring quietly, then vanishing with the door shut soft behind him.

Mico lifts his glass and nods toward me.

“To surviving the impossible.”

I smile faintly and reach for mine. We toast.

Severo doesn’t lift his glass.

Mico slices into the duck, wrist light on the knife. “You remember that place we ate at in Sicily?” he says, turning slightly toward me. “You ordered oysters and hated them, so you made me eat six of them.”

I just turned eighteen and my mom had taken us to Sicily to celebrate. She and Marco had gone shopping and Mico and I had gone to eat together. That moment felt like heaven then.

I laugh under my breath. “And you pretended to enjoy it like you weren’t dying inside.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says and asks, “Did it work?”