For the rest of their meal, you found excuses to attend their table.
You refilled Sophia Vitelli’s sparkling water before the lemon slice even sank. You brought extra napkins, checked the temperature of her soup, and signed every question before speaking it aloud. It was not professional strategy. It was instinct.
You knew what it felt like to sit in a room where everyone talked around someone instead of to them.
Sophia noticed.
Every time you signed, her face softened. Every time you looked directly at her instead of her son, she sat a little straighter, as if your attention had given her back some part of herself the restaurant had tried to steal.
Dante Vitelli noticed too.
He barely spoke to you again, but his eyes followed you through the dining room. They followed when you carried plates. They followed when Marco snapped at you for moving too slowly. They followed when a drunk man at table nine touched your elbow and you pulled away with a polite smile because polite smiles were how waitresses survived.
By dessert, Sophia had told you she missed Sicily, hated American coffee, loved jazz, and thought her son needed less business and more laughter.
You translated that last part aloud before thinking.
Dante’s mouth twitched.
“Did she say that exactly?” he asked.
Sophia signed quickly.
“Tell him yes. And tell him he looks like his father when he thinks scowling is a personality.”
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
Dante leaned back in his chair, watching your hands.
“She said you remind her of your father,” you translated carefully.
His eyes narrowed.
“That is not all she said.”
Sophia’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
For one second, the dangerous man at the table looked less like a figure from whispered rumors and more like a son being teased by his mother.
Then his phone buzzed.
The softness vanished.
He glanced at the screen. One of his bodyguards leaned closer. A message passed between them without words, and the air around the table tightened.
You had seen rich men take business calls in restaurants. This was different.
Dante stood.
“Mother,” he signed clumsily, “we leave soon.”
Sophia’s smile faded.
She signed back sharply.
“I have not finished my dessert.”
He gave her a look.
She gave one right back.
You looked away, pretending not to notice.
But Sophia tapped your wrist lightly.
“Tell my son I am eighty-two, not eight.”
You hesitated.
Dante’s eyes flicked to you.
“Translate.”
Your throat went dry.
“She said she is eighty-two, not eight.”
One of the bodyguards coughed into his hand.
Dante did not smile, but something in his face eased.
“She has ten minutes.”
Sophia signed triumphantly.
You brought her tiramisu.
When you placed it in front of her, she touched your hand and signed, “You are kind, Elena. Do not let this place teach you to be small.”
The words hit too close.
Your smile faltered.
Before you could respond, Marco appeared behind you.
“Elena,” he hissed. “Kitchen. Now.”
His tone was sharp enough that Sophia looked up.
Dante did too.
You signed quickly, “Enjoy your dessert,” then followed Marco toward the service hallway.
The moment you were out of the dining room, he turned on you.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
You blinked.
