Dinner with my grandfather had always been a quiet ritual of ours.
The two of us, with him on the head of the table, while I sat adjacent to him by the long mahogany table. A tradition carved from years of power and silent. So tonight should have felt no different, and yet, everything inside me was restless ever since the afternoon.
The photograph in my office still burned behind my eyes. That name, Alexander Barinov, echoing in my skull like a warning I couldn't outrun. Still, at least I managed to get some work done for the day.
I sat, smoothing my napkin across my lap, dressed in my cream blouse and dark blue trousers. Waiting, as Grandpa settled into his chair with the same slow, deliberate movements he'd perfected over decades of ruling an empire. His expression was unreadable, but the faint tap of his fingers against his cane told me he was thinking. Calculating. Waiting.
I opened my mouth, ready to ask him about the envelope in my office. About why he chose me for this mission, when he had men who were better qualified for the job. About the sudden panic that seized me.
The first hint of words were about to shape my tongue, but I never got the chance.
The dining room door swung open with practiced precision, and our butler stepped inside, bowing his head. "Forgive the interruption, Signor Ricci," he said, his voice steady, respectful. "But the guest has arrived."
Guest.
The world landed like a pebble dropped into still water, its ripples moving outward through the air, shifting something in the room.
Grandpa's fingers stopped tapping.
"Very well," he said, leaning back in his chair with that calculated ease he wielded like a weapon. "Send him in."
His gaze lifted to mine then, sharp and assessing, and for a brief second, something dark and knowing flickered in his eyes. "I've taken the liberty of inviting Dario to stay with us for a few days, before you had to leave for your assignment," he announced, his tone deceptively mild. "I assume you've already located your target?"
My throat tightened as I swallowed, my pulse tapping a frantic rhythm against my skin. I forced my breath to steady.
"Yes, Nonno," I managed, though the words came out clipped.
I've spent the entire day working alongside our trackers, combing through surveillance feeds and digital trails. But what unsettled me most wasn't the search. It was how effortless it had been. His location had surfaced almost instantly. Almost like he wanted to be found.
"Good," Grandpa said, the single word carrying the weight of an expectation I could no longer pretend not to feel.
The doors opened with a soft, controlled sweep. The butler bowed and slipped out, when Dario stepped inside with his shoulders squared, confidence stitched into every line of his body. his jacket was unbuttoned, his curls falling freely, brushing against his forehead in a way that made him look less polished, more human than last night.
His dark gaze found mine immediately, and smiled.
He cleared his throat as he approached, stopping at the head of the table. "Signore," he greeted my grandfather with a respectful incline of his head, before flicking his gaze to me. "Isolda."
Grandpa gestured for him to take a seat, and Dario obeyed, settling into the chair directly across from me. Grandpa positioned neatly between us. A strategic arrangement, as always.
Yet Dario didn't look away. Not even once. His stare held mine through the low light and the polished silver, unblinking and unreadable. Even when the servants entered, gliding around him as they set his place. He didn't even spare them a glance. It was as if the room had narrowed to just the two of us.
"Thank you for making time to join us, Signor Bianchi," Grandpa said, his tone smooth but edged with something I couldn't quite place.
"A pleasure to be here, Signore," Dario replied, though his voice carried a tightness that contradicted his words. The plates were set before us. Steak, medium-rare, sautéed vegetables. Identical. Predictable.
My wine was poured, while Grandpa's tea only continued to steam softly beside him.
The clink of cutlery hand't even begun when the butler reappeared at Dario's shoulder, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"What would you like to drink this evening, sir?" he asked.
Dario didn't look at him. His gaze drifting instead to the glass in front of me, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary.
"Wine," he said, his tone low. "The same as the signorina."
A faint hum of approval slipped from my grandfather.
"Of course," the butler murmured, bowing before he retreated from the dining room.
Grandpa lifted his teacup, his eyes cutting between us with quiet calculation. "You've always had a fondness for wine, Isolda," he said, tapping the rim lightly before taking a sip. "Even when you were younger, you've always preferred a full-bodied red over anything sweet."
His gaze shifted to Dario. "I wonder," Grandpa continued, tone deceptively mild, "if you're the same? Italians tend to appreciate a good vintage, after all. It says a great deal about a man's palate...and his patience."
Heat prickled at the back of my neck. The implication hung heavy between us. Like an observation, a warning all woven into one.
Dario met my grandfather's eyes. "I enjoy what's refined," he said simply.
"I suppose it runs in the family," I added lightly, swirling the wine in my glass before bringing it to my lips. "Nonno enjoyed a particular vintage in his younger days, too. At least from what I remember anyway."
He let out a slow, amused hum, the sound vibrating like an old cello.
"Ah, that," Grandpa said, leaning back as if he was settling into a story he hadn't told in years. "Your grandmother used to scold me for it. She said I loved the bottle more than sleep." His bleu eyes glittered with nostalgia before he shook his head. "But the truth is, I didn't drink it out of sophistication. I drank it because I was surrounded by barrels. And it reminded me of my father."
I blinked. "'Surrounded by barrels'?"
He chuckled, deep and rough, the kind of laugh that suggested past mischief. "My father sent me to work in our family's vineyard as punishment for being insolent. Thought hard labor would scrub the arrogance out of me." He tapped a knuckle against the table, his gold signet ring reflecting the dim light. "Picking grapes at dawn, hauling crates until my shoulders ached...The scent of fermenting fruit clung to my clothes for weeks."
His gaze then shifted to Dario, sharp but not unkind. Curious. "Italians have a way of turning punishment into poetry. They say you can tell a man by the vintage he prefers. Tell me, Dario, were you like that too?"
The air tightened again. The question threaded with invitation and quiet challenge.
Wine, after all, was never just wine in this family. It was heritage, taste, restraint and most of the time, confession.
Dario rested his fingertips against the stem of his glass, turning it once in a slow, deliberate circle. A faint smile touched his mouth. Not flippant, but thoughtful, measured.
"I've learned," he said, "that a man reveals too much when he names his favorite vintage." His gaze lifted to meet my grandfather's, steady and unhurried. "And I prefer not to be read so easily. With all due respect, sir."
The remark wasn't arrogant, I had to give it to him. It was elegant in its restraint. An answer wrapped in confidence rather than defiance.
Grandpa's brows lifted, the corner of his mouth pulling into something almost approving, as if Dario had passed a test he hadn't been told he was taking.
"Fair enough," Nonno murmured, nodding once. "A man should keep a few things to himself."
Dario inclined his head slightly in gratitude, then set his glass down with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have. "In that case," he continued, his tone still respectful but unmistakably direct, "may I ask the real reason you wanted me here tonight?"
The questions settled between the three of us like a slow drift of ash.
Quiet, but impossible to ignore.