“Aurora’s not a teenager, she’s twenty-one. Old enough to drink, just not old enough to handle it.” On cue, my Merlot arrives in a glass barely bigger than a thimble. Embarrassment creeps across my chest, and instinctively, my eyes drop to the steak knife laid out neatly in front of me. Tempting. But instead of using the Viscontis’ silverware as a weapon, I do what I’ve become accustomed to: plastering on a fake smile and biting down my bitterness. “Big Al keeping you on a tight leash tonight, hmm?” Tor says, lips twitching.
