"Benvenuto. Shall we say grace?" My father prompts. I hold my breath, not scanning the table's occupants.

To my surprise, Christina stood. "If you all don't mind, I would like to."

My father beams like a teacher who was proud of his student. Something clenches in my gut: a warning. Like the flashing light of a car's dashboard, telling me of some danger, but what? "Very well, Signorina Martell."

A soft gasp rises in the room at the sound of her last name. Martell. Will they tear her to pieces or accept her with open arms?

"Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we have forgiven our debtors. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from the evil one." She recites the Lord's Prayer.

Of course, I have heard it before, countless times in Mass and from my mother's own mouth as she prayed the Rosary. But it sounds different falling from Christina Martell's lips. Maybe it is more genuine that way; maybe she actually believes. A chorus of amen echoes around the table as we dig into the food. An antipasto is the first course served in this dining room that reminds me of the Addams Family set, all flickering candles and dark walls. The aromas of pickled vegetables, cured meats, and various cheeses wafts toward me from the platters of food being laid down by the silent, black-attired servers.

I pick at some salami and roasted red pepper, watching as Christina pries an olive off of a toothpick. Her expression is relieved but uncertain, her shoulders tensing with discomfort. Whispers of conversation start up again around the room, my father presiding over them all with his steely gaze.

"So, Signorina Martell, tell me about yourself." And there it is. There is more than mere innocent curiosity present in my father's voice as he slices into a piece of smoked salmon. "What was your life like growing up? I can't imagine life with a single mother was easy."

"I'm not sure that I'm the most interesting person to talk to here," she says, the sheepish smile she wears strained. "My life has been pretty simple."

Roberto Cavalli cocks his head to one side, studying her like a scientist. "No one who ends up in my house has a 'pretty simple' life. Or at least, they might think it's simple, but I assure you... the truth is far more complicated."

I pop a chunk of provolone in my mouth, watching the two of them as one would a tennis match. But any confrontation with my father, I know, is far deadlier than any sports game, which is why I lean forward, nudging Christina's ankle with mine. She looks up from her plate and toward me, a question in her eyes. I jerk my head toward my father, trying to get her to abort this conversation.

She smiles politely, her expression becoming more cordial and less uncomfortable. "What sorts of people wind up in your house, Mr. Cavalli?"

That was definitely the wrong question to ask, as I see the gleam in my father's eyes, the hungry look of a predator who was spotted a straggling gazelle with a limp, lost and gone astray from the herd. He takes a sip of his whiskey, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin. "All sorts of people, Signorina. Everyone from college students to expectant mothers and even a handful of long-lost, missing children."

Sirens go off in my mind. Expectant mothers? Who did he take this time? I rack my brain, thinking about the catalogue of our enemies. The Filipetto family? Maria was recently married, but I'm' not sure that she is pregnant. None of the Martell girls are pregnant, as far as I know. Could it be one of the Steeles? I have not kept up with their family tree lately, so it could be one of them.

Christina laughs awkwardly into her glass of ginger ale while searching for a rebuttal. "How... interesting."

"Ah, here's the second course," my father says, waving a hand as though he didn't just confess to multiple kidnappings and contributions to missing persons cases. "I hope you like pasta, Signorina Martell."

"I do." Christina's smile remains fixed in place as she surveys the dishes that the servers are bringing out now. "Thank you again for inviting me to dine with you."

"Prego. Of course, of course. Oh, that reminds me. How rude I have been, Signorina. I should have introduced you to everyone," he says, still wearing that shark-like grin that makes me want to grab Christina and run out of the room as fast as I can. "This is my oldest friend, Tomas Esposito."

Too fixated on Christina's safety, I didn't take my usual precautions in scanning the room. Now that I'm tearing myself away from their conversation, I notice that no women except for Christina are present at the table. It's not atypical for one of my father's dinners. We're wealthy enough that the women aren't in the kitchens cooking--though some of the nonne prefer to prepare the food themselves--but they're not privy to business dealings. They eat separately. Women in the mafia are relegated to either being the upstanding wives and mothers of the dons and capos or being the men's 'entertainment'. I wonder what Christina thinks of that.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Christina says, not standing up to shake his hand. The ache in my stiff neck subsides somewhat as I keep an eye on her interactions. This is worse than a den of vipers. Somewhere in the background, Sinatra is playing, all bluesy clarinets and buttery tones.

"Likewise, signorina bella," he says, having the gall to wink at her. He's forty-five, for Christ's sake. And he has a wife. Why is he flirting with her? Tomas notices my glare and says, "Don't look so jealous, Tony. I'm just being nice."

I roll my eyes and take a gulp of ice water. "I wasn't being jealous."

Christina's smile softens, becoming more genuine when it's directed toward me. "There's no reason for Antonio to be jealous. We aren't together."

I finish the water and feel the ice slide down my throat, leaving a chill in my chest that matches the icy glower covering my face. Chewing on the dry bread that I plucked from the basket without olio di oliva, I wait to be served. A heap of linguine with shrimp and tomatoes is scooped onto my plate, steam rising toward my face from the blue-tinged porcelain plate.

At least the food is good because I have the feeling this is going to be a long dinner.