Page 48 of Broken Crown

CHAPTER 14

SABRINA

The butler gave me a sympathetic look as I passed him on my way into the dining room after he announced that dinner was served.

His eyes held a warning I couldn't quite decipher, but the slight tightening around his mouth told me everything I needed to know.

This wasn't going to be pleasant.

I hated the dining room.

It was just so oppressively formal, with generations of Italians staring down at me in judgment, their oil-painted eyes following my every move.

The dining room was a monument to old money and older power. Vaulted ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes depicting Italian battles hovered above bloodred damask wallpaper that throbbed in the wavering light of the massive crystal chandelier.

The table, a gleaming slab of mahogany polished to mirror perfection, stretched like a runway, capable of seating thirty but tonight set for just six. Silver place settings caught the light, while the wineglasses stood tall and fragile, ready to shatter at the first sign of tension.

The breakfast room was only slightly better, but at least it was in a smaller, less intimidating space where I didn't feel I was being judged by every dead Diamanti who'd ever lived.

With Sebastian's guiding hand at my back, his touch possessive, fingers splayed against my spine, we moved to the head of the table. His palm radiated heat through the thin silk of my dress, burning his ownership into my skin.

His mother beat us there.

Filomena Diamanti stood like a sentinel, her scarlet lips a slash of cruelty against the tanned leather of her skin. Diamonds dripped from her ears and throat, not the delicate kind, but the ostentatious sort meant to remind everyone of precisely who she was. She motioned for one of the servers to pull out the chair to the right of the head of the table.

The servant looked to Sebastian, who subtly shook his head, his jaw tightening to granite.

"Mother, Sabrina will be sitting on my right. You may sit to the left."

I couldn't imagine anything that mattered less at that moment than where I sat. My stomach was already in knots, anticipating the arctic chill of the evening ahead.

"That's fine. I can⁠—"

A look from Sebastian stopped me cold—dark eyes flashing a warning that cut my words short.

His fingers dug briefly into my hip, a silent command I was learning to recognize.

Filomena drummed her long nails against the high back of the chair and gave her son a glare before lifting her chin and moving around the table to the left.

Sebastian waved the servant away and pulled out my chair himself.

The moment I sat, he rested his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the vulnerable hollows of my collarbones. He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering a beat too long while his grip tightened, a public brand of possession.

I knew exactly what this was. The brandishing of a weapon. Me, positioned like a queen on a chessboard, displayed for his mother's benefit.

The moment he took his seat, a small army of servants, all dressed in tuxedos with a gold embroidered Diamanti crest over their heart, swarmed the table to pour wine.

The butler announced the antipasto course as more servants filed in with military precision, each carrying two cloche-covered plates. "Carciofi alla Giudia paired with a crisp Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi Classico from the Marche region. Enjoy."

A thoughtful servant leaned down and whispered, "Fried artichoke with a preserved lemon creme," as he lifted the cloche with a flourish that sent steam curling upward.

I smiled my appreciation. The artichoke was fried to a beautiful golden brown, giving it the appearance of an exotic flower, too beautiful to eat and too expensive to waste.

I reached for my wine first, needing some liquid courage.

The glass was heavier than I expected, and I nearly sloshed the pale-gold liquid onto the pristine tablecloth. My fingers trembled slightly as I brought it to my lips and took a larger swallow than proper etiquette would dictate.

Everyone around the table either sipped their wine as well or quietly pulled at the leaves of their artichoke. Arcangelo studied his plate with practiced boredom while Rafaello kept shooting glances at Sebastian, a silent conversation passing between them.