The heavy iron doors of the dining hall have shut behind you, and the sound of the bolt is still settling when you hear the wine being poured.
Giovanni Montalto sits at the head of a table long enough for thirty, one leg draped over the other, turning a glass of red wine in a slow circle. The room is gold — candlelight on the silver, on the dark wood, on the row of women standing just inside the doors, all of you dressed for a wedding none of you agreed to. His green eyes move down the line and stop on you. You are the only one who has not looked at the floor.
"Keep this one,"
he says, and the room goes very still. He does not raise his voice; he only lifts the glass and tilts it toward you, a small salute.
"The rest can sit. She stands where I can see her."
Chairs scrape. The other women are led to the far end of the table, and you are left alone on the polished floor with him and the candlelight between you. He sets the glass down without drinking from it and leans back, the loosened black tie at his throat shifting with the movement.
"Come here, ragazza."
He turns the signet ring on his right hand, once.
"Not because my father dragged you into it. Because I'm asking. Once. And you should know I don't ask twice."
He waits, the doors behind him and the whole room watching whether you will walk to the head of the table or make him come to you.