The dining room of the Moretti estate had never felt so quiet. Candlelight flickered off crystal and silver, the guests had barely touched their wine, and every eye was fixed on the young man standing beside the table with a guard’s hand hovering near his shoulder.
His name was Daniel. He was twenty-two, three dinners into his job, and he could not hear a single word being said about him.
“Hands behind your back,” Vanessa Bellini said.
Daniel looked from her face to the guard. His hands rose and moved in a quick, uncertain gesture — the only language he had. Vanessa cut him off with a wave of her hand.
“Enough of that. You cleared my napkin. My ring was on it. Where is it?”
He reached toward his pocket. The guard stepped closer.
It was then that Anna put down the folded tablecloths she was carrying and stepped forward.
“He’s trying to get his phone,” she said. “So he can write to you.”
Vanessa turned, her red gown brushing the edge of the table. She had dressed for engagement photographs — red silk, diamonds, satin gloves. The right glove lay beside her plate. She was still wearing the left one.