My grandfather's expression turning into unreadable neutrality. The kind that accompanied decisions made long before we sat down. The light catching the hard lines of his profile.
"I thought," he said, his voice calm but carrying weight, "it was time to see for myself the man who's going to be...important to my granddaughter."
The words struck something in my chest. A sharp, precise strike I felt in my ribs more than in my ears. Still, I kept my mouth shut. I am not opposed to this partnership, anyway. It could be worse.
Across from me, Dario didn't so much as blink. He held my grandfather's gaze with that same, unflinching steadiness. As if he had walked into this room knowing this was inevitable.
"Then," Dario said quietly, his eyes finally turning to me, "I hope I can give you something worth seeing. After all, your granddaughter and I have agreed that we both have a role to play in making this partnership...successful."
A slow smile tugged at the corner of my grandfather's mouth. Small, but unmistakably approving. The kind he rarely offered to anyone outside our bloodline.
"Good," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I appreciate a man who understands responsibility. And even more, one who chooses to meet it head-on."
The air shifted. Some of the stiffness eased from Dario's shoulders, and the conversation began to flow again, slipping into the familiar rhythm of dinner politics.
We moved on to our meals, and soon enough, they were speaking easily about business. The stare of supply chains in Italy, the newly opened districts in New York and the investors circling the city like hawks. The kind of talk that used to be my entire world.
Every now and then, they'd turn to me, asking for my take on a contract, a rumor or some small political shift that might matter in the coming months. I responded when needed, offering clean, measured answers that revealed nothing more than necessary. Even when something relentless kept twisting inside me since the night before.
I can't help it.
I couldn't stop the way my thoughts kept circling back to the sealed envelope waiting in my office. To the photograph tucked inside it, and the name printed beneath it. Alexandre Barinov.
He was a man I was never meant to recognize, and yet, my body knew him all too intimately.
I shouldn't have known him.
Shouldn't have remembered the heat of his breath ghosting down my neck, or the solid, unyielding weight of his body pressing mine into the sheets. I shouldn't have known the low timbre of his voice, curling around my ear in the dark like it belonged there.
I'm supposed to kill him, goddamn it.
Even now, seated at this table, with my grandfather and the man I'm supposed to marry talking just mere feet away, the mere thought of him did something to me.
It was too easy to imagine him beneath this table, sliding his tongue between my legs with that lazy, wicked confidence he carried. Too easy to imagine his hands on my thighs, coaxing my body open. Teasing me like he already knew all the ways I could fall apart.
Their voices blurred, rising and falling, muted by the steady pulse pounding behind my temples. The wine in my glass suddenly tasted like ash. The room felt too warm, too close.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I pushed back my chair and stood. The scrape of wood against the floor cutting sharply through their conversation.
Both of them looked up.
"Something wrong, Isolda?" Grandpa asked, brows lifting.
"Do you need anything?" Dario added, his tone quieter, sharper.
I shook my head, the movement looked more controlled than I felt. "I'm fine," I said, the lie tugging at the edges of my voice. "I'm just tired from the trip. I think the day's catching up to me. I should rest."
Grandpa nodded, his expression softened into something paternal. "Of course, cara mia. Go, get some rest."
I let out a quiet exhale, about to turn away when his voice followed me before I could take a step.
"Let me walk you," Dario said lightly, as if escorting me back to my room, in the house I've lived in since I was little, was the most natural thing in the world.
"That's not necessary," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "I can manage—"
"Nonsense," Grandpa cut in, drifting his focus back on his steak, slicing through the meat with slow precision, the juices bleeding across the plate. "You've only just recovered. Let the man walk you back. It can't hurt."
The finality in his tone clipped off any argument I might have had. My protest died on my tongue, my mouth snapping shut before the rest could even take shape.
"Yes, Nonno," I said quietly, obediently.
Dario rose without hesitation, the clean scrape of his chair against the floor sounding far too controlled for the storm simmering behind his composed eyes.
"It would be my pleasure," he said, stepping beside me.
I swallowed hard. Heat and dread twisting so tightly together they felt indistinguishable. I slipped my hand in his offered arm, the fabric of his suit warm beneath my palm.
"Goodnight, Nonno," I murmured.
He only nodded, his eyes lifting just briefly in acknowledgement.
We stepped out of the dining room and into the dim corridor beyond.
The hallway was dim and quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against my skin. Our footsteps echoed in slow, measured rhythm, though Dario didn't look at me at first. Not until we were a few strides away from the dining room, far enough that my grandfather wouldn't hear.
"Your memory loss," he began, his voice low but steady, "your grandfather told me about it."
The words made my pulse stutter, but I kept my gaze ahead. "Did he?"
"He told me to be patient," Dario continued, slipping his free hand into his pocket as if we were discussing negotiations instead of my life. "Said it might be better for the both of us, if you never remembered. That way, we could start fresh."
Something twisted sharply in my chest. How am I supposed to move on without knowing what had happened to me?
"That's...he never told me that," I said quietly.
Dario nodded once, then glanced toward me, studying my face. "You truly still don't remember?"
"I'm surprised no one in the Famiglia mentioned it," I murmured. "Not even by accident."
His jaw tightened, as he stared ahead, his voice dropping a shade darker. "It was kept secret. Those who knew were either dead, or sworn to silence. And I—" he paused, almost defensively, "I was in New York then. I didn't know any of it. I didn't care about any of this before my father died and passed it on to me."
The admission hung between us, heavy as a confession.
I slowed, then stopped altogether once we've reached the middle landing of the stairs. The point where the corridor split. One side toward the east wing of my bedroom, the other toward the guest quarters, where he would've been staying
"Dario," I said softly.
He halted beside me, turning just enough that the low chandelier light brushed against his cheekbones. "Yes?"
I drew a breath I didn't want to take. "About the wedding, I think it should be held after I finish the mission." My voice surprised me with how firm it sounded, even though something inside me recoiled from every syllable. "It makes much more sense that way. For everyone."
He gave a slow, measured nod. "I agree," he said, watching me with that unreadable stillness he wore like armor. "Your grandfather would be pleased to hear that."
No protest. No hesitation. Just acceptance, like it was the outcome he had expected all along.
His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind his eyes before he stepped back and cleared his throat. "Well," he said quietly, slipping back into that polished composure of his, "if that's all, you'll have to excuse me."
He took the hand that had been resting on his arm, lifting it with practiced elegance and brushed his lips across the back of my palm. A gesture meant to be intimate, but it only felt like obligation, dressed up as affection.
"There's a call I need to make," he finished, releasing me with a faint smile.
I only nodded.
Then he turned and walked down the opposite corridor. His stride confident, unhurried. I watched, as he disappear into the shadows, his footsteps growing softer and softer until they were swallowed completely by the old bones of the house.
This was for the best.
After all, it none of this was personal.
It's purely business.