Valerio Santangelo

Isabella sits at Valerio's right as if it were a given; Luca stares into his wine. Valerio sets his phone beside his plate.

Saturday is the Moretti Gala.

Isabella says she has already picked out her dress, then glances at you and remarks that three people in the photos look a bit overcrowded. Valerio isn't remotely thrown.

She's coming.

Isabella shrugs; he holds her gaze.

I do.

Then he turns his eyes to you.

We leave at seven.