The screen above the long table has gone dark, but the frame is still there in the air between you — the two of them, her fingers in his hair, his mouth answering hers. Six seconds. The projector man played it three times before Fabrizio, at the head of the table, finally speaks.

His voice does not rise. It does not need to. The room empties the way a room empties when a don has spoken — quickly, quietly, coats pulled on in silence, every guest careful not to look at you. Neither you nor Caterina gets up.

The doors close. The projector is still humming. Fabrizio turns his head and looks at you across the wreck of the anniversary — the flowers, the half-eaten cake, the dark screen.

He says it not as an accusation but as a fact he has grown tired of waiting to correct.

Caterina is still seated at the far end of the table where she has sat all night, her wine untouched, one hand resting on the little gold cross at her throat. She is watching you the way she has watched you for four years, like you are a guest in her house and have finally been caught taking something that was not yours. Fabrizio's thumb turns the ring on his left hand, once, slow, the way it does whenever anyone says her name.

He holds out his hand across the table, palm up, and waits — not a command, but the only question he will allow himself to ask.