The silence that followed felt like death itself.
Lorenzo Costa slowly turned his head away from Arthur Castiglione and fixed his eyes on Genevieve. The others did not understand what had happened, but Costa did. His gaze sharpened with a cold precision, as if he had just found a fingerprint on a weapon no one was supposed to have touched.
The dialect she had spoken was not polite Italian. It was not the polished Sicilian used in old songs or family kitchens.
It was gutter language.
Old language.
A dangerous tongue once spoken in back rooms, courtyards, and dying villages where secrets were passed like knives.
Genevieve folded her hands in her lap. Her knuckles whitened, but her face remained still.
Arthur continued speaking, unaware that the power in the room had shifted. He talked about market projections, expansion plans, and shareholder pressure. His voice became meaningless noise.
Because Lorenzo Costa was no longer there for the deal.
He was there for her.