He tried to look past me. Past the guards. Past the candles that made everything dangerous by making it beautiful.
"Now." I pressed the bite to his lips.
They parted and closed around the bread. The soft give met my fingertips. Teeth grazed with hesitation, not courage. He chewed. The line of his swallow slid down his neck like a pulled wire releasing. I watched it the way men watch a rival's hand near a gun.
The flutter there tightened something under my ribs.
"Slow."
Another heel. Oil. Salt. Lips.
They glossed. The shine gathered in the bow and caught the firelight. He knew it. His tongue chased a trace of lemon before shame could stop him. His eyes flashed up, wide and ember-bright, confusion showing like an exposed nerve.
"Do you like it?" I asked.
"The food?" he said.
"The attention."
"I don't."
"Lie," I said, gentle as a blade laid flat. "Pretty again."
Black curls stuck to his temple, a fine sweat haloed his hairline. Too hot for the room, or the room too hot for him. Both were true.
"You were gone a long time," I said, hands busy with ritual. "Sicily feels different when you come back with enemies. How does it feel, Emilio?"
"Like the city put on a mask."
"It always wore one. You only learned to see it."
"You make everything ugly."
"I make everything honest." I slid my fingers in after the bread until his lips closed around the last of my patience. "You missed your Papà."
He went still.
"Yes, you missed him. Or did you miss the idea more?"
"You don't know him."
"I don't need to. I know you. Look at me."
He did, angry, lit, confused.
"A lie for a lie," I said, and set the last bite on his tongue. He swallowed and a small sound escaped, caught and contained, too late.
"Better."
I reached for the carafe. Tilted the glass, let the red breathe against crystal before bringing it to his lips.
"Drink."
They pressed tight. A tremor in his jaw. He shook his head. "No."
I leaned closer. The rim brushed his lips. He pushed it back with a shaky hand, defiance sparking in ember eyes.
"I said drink."