Ferrante's eyes darted between the gun and Elena, sweat already beading at his temples.
He had already made his choice, and Elena felt the decision slice straight through her like a blade meant only for her because it certainly was.
"It's her fault!" His voice cracked, climbing into a desperate whine. "She came to me! I told her to go back—I said go back to your table, I didn't want any trouble—"
"You walked over to my table," Alessandro said, his tone calm, ice-cold, and terrifyingly controlled.
"And then she came to mine!" Ferrante jabbed a trembling finger toward Elena. "I told her—miss, please, go back. I didn't want—"
"He did," Elena said softly, almost thoughtfully, her gaze never leaving Alessandro. Oh my… she had wanted to irritate him but she didn't think it would turn out like this. She was risking this poor man's life.
"He did tell me to go back." She said finally.
Alessandro's eyes shifted to her.
She smiled at him wickedly.
