He had not raised his voice.
That made it worse.
“I was joking.”
“No.
You were trying to humiliate someone because you believed she couldn’t answer you.”
Camilla’s cheeks reddened.
“She works here.”
Sophie saw Monsieur Laurent flinch.
Alessandro looked toward him.
“Does employment here remove the ability to speak?”
Laurent swallowed.
“No, Monsieur Moretti.”
“Does it remove an education?”
“No, monsieur.”
Camilla laughed again, but there was no confidence left in it.
“Wonderful.
Everyone worship the waitress now.”
Sophie almost pitied her.
Almost.
Then Camilla reached for the folded paper.
Alessandro’s hand came down over it first.
“Don’t.”
One word.
Camilla stopped.
Sophie looked at him.
“That belongs to me.”
Alessandro’s eyes lifted.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then he slid the page back across the table.
“You’re right.”
Sophie took it and returned it to her apron.
That small act mattered.
He could have kept it.
He had bodyguards, influence, money, and a reputation powerful enough to empty rooms.
Yet in front of witnesses he had returned her property.
Whether that came from respect, calculation, or fear of what other copies might exist, Sophie could not tell.
“What did your father tell you about the Morettis?” Alessandro asked.
“Almost nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He taught me not to confuse silence with ignorance.”
For the first time, something changed in Alessandro’s expression.
Not amusement exactly.
Recognition.
Sophie continued before fear could stop her.
“He said powerful people survive because ordinary people are trained to believe that noticing something and proving something are the same thing.
They aren’t.”
Alessandro’s jaw tightened.
“And what can you prove?”
“Tonight?” Sophie asked.
“Only that Camilla pointed to a Loire wine and called it Bordeaux.”
A nervous sound escaped from a nearby table before someone disguised it as a cough.
Even Alessandro glanced down.
Camilla stared at Sophie with open hatred.
“You think this is funny?”
“No, madam.”
“You think knowing French makes you important?”
