I asked casually, "Is Silvana coming?"
"Of course," he said.
I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wedding ring and turned it slowly. One full rotation. "Fine then. I'll come with you tomorrow."
If they wanted to apologize, it had better not be just to me.
The next day, when Simone pulled up in the black sedan, Silvana Ricci was in the passenger seat.
She turned to look at me as I opened the rear door, and she gave me a smile that was all surface, all practiced warmth. Her fingers drifted to the hollow of her throat, resting there for just a moment. "Sorry, Grazia. I get carsick. Must be the pregnancy, you know, so I had to sit up front."
I smiled back faintly. "Sure."
When I hadn't been considering divorce, I might have felt something about my husband's first love sitting beside him, her hand resting near his on the center console, her perfume filling the car. But now, whatever they did just stopped bothering me. The sting was gone. In its place was something flat and clear, like the surface of water after the wind dies.
It was funny, though. If it was Simone's car, she had to sit next to him. But in anyone else's car, at any other gathering, she never mentioned carsickness. She'd take whatever seat was offered and never say a word about it.
The restaurant was one of those places the Families used for sit-downs when they wanted neutral ground that still felt expensive. White tablecloths. Heavy silverware. A private room in the back where the staff knew not to enter without knocking twice. By the time we arrived, all of Simone's men were already there, seated around the long table like soldiers awaiting orders. Rocco Valente. Dario Ferretti. Luca. A few others from the crew who'd been present when the remarks were made.
Rocco came over first. He greeted me with a nod that was barely a nod, then pulled out the chair beside him and gestured for me to sit. "Grazia. I'll be the first to apologize."
His tone wasn't exactly sincere. There was something underneath it, something that sounded less like remorse and more like a man who'd been told to do this and resented the instruction. Once everyone was seated, Rocco poured me a drink, announced he'd take a shot to make up for his mistakes, and raised his glass. He drained it in one swallow, set it down with a deliberate clink, and began.
"Well, I don't usually think before I speak, so don't take it to heart." He cracked the knuckle of his right index finger. A single, sharp pop. "Honestly, I never thought you were good enough for my brother. But he wants to be with you, so I'm here to support him."
"Thanks," I said. "I guess."
He poured another glass and said he'd take a second shot for what he'd said that day. He drank it, and the apology sat between us like a stone neither of us wanted to pick up.
Right after that, the others jumped in. Dario ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Simone before offering his own version of contrition. Luca tilted his chin up slightly before mumbling something about not meaning any disrespect. The words came quickly, rehearsed, a chorus of men who'd been told to perform and were performing.
Seeing the tension ease, Simone took charge. He straightened in his seat, gestured broadly, and told everyone to eat. The waiters appeared. Plates were set down. For a few minutes, the room sounded almost normal.
Then Silvana stood up.
She held a glass of juice, because of course she couldn't drink, and her free hand rose to the hollow of her throat. Two fingers resting there, light as a whisper. The room shifted. Conversations didn't stop, exactly, but they thinned, the way sound thins when everyone starts listening without wanting to be caught doing it.
"Grazia, I want to apologize to you too." Her voice was warm, pitched perfectly for an audience. "Simone and I had a past, so with our situation now, I think I've made things difficult for you."
Simone moved immediately. "Hey, Silvana, no. You didn't do anything wrong."
His thumb traced the edge of his jaw. Slowly. The gesture I'd learned to recognize in our first year together. The one that meant a lie was coming, or had just arrived, or had been living in his mouth so long he'd forgotten it was there.
Then he turned to me, and his expression shifted to something that was supposed to look earnest. "Darling, I'm sorry. I admit I didn't handle this situation well."
"Alright," I said. My voice was level. The room was quiet enough to hear the ice settling in someone's glass. "But someone else wants to hear you both apologize too."
Every head at the table turned toward me.
Then the door swung open.
He walked in sharp and unhurried, dressed in a dark suit cut so precisely it looked like armor. The kind of man who entered a room and changed its temperature without raising his voice or lifting a hand.
"W-why are you here?" Silvana stammered, her face draining of color, the glass of juice trembling in her grip.
Her husband stood in the doorway, and the room went very still.
