CHAPTER 123: " IF I STEP ON HIS FOOT,"

The introductions earlier that day still hung in the air like after-notes of a hymn—Roman’s steady voice as he presented Julia, not just as a companion but as his wife, and Lazarus’s own announcement, bold yet tender, introducing Samantha as the woman he intended to make his bride.

In the hush of the church and the weight of the funeral, those words had been like anchors thrown into deep waters—declarations binding love even in the shadow of loss.

But now the mournful solemnity had softened, replaced by the glow of the evening.

The gathering had shifted into the great dining hall, where a single long table commanded the room.

It was a sight in itself—polished wood, draped in fine linen, silver cutlery laid with precision.

Platters were set down in intervals, carried in by quiet-footed attendants: roasted lamb, glazed vegetables, fresh loaves steaming as they were broken open, fruits arranged in towers of color.

The scent of herbs and spices mingled with the faint sweetness of wine, filling the hall with warmth.

It was food prepared not just to nourish but to honor, each dish rich enough to silence conversation for a moment.

Roman, as ever, carried himself with unspoken control. He rested his hand on Julia’s back as he guided her toward a seat, a gesture at once protective and firm.

He pulled out her chair himself before taking his place beside her, his movements precise, deliberate, as though every small action bore meaning.

A glass was poured—first for Julia, then for those within his reach—before he lifted his own, drinking in silence.

At the head of the table, Mr. Belenti sat like a king among men. His eyes were heavy, thoughtful, his presence commanding even in stillness.

Conversations rose and fell in respectful tones around him, no one daring to forget his quiet authority.

Julia’s movements were careful, almost hesitant at first. She served herself modestly—small bites, a slice of bread torn gently, meat taken in quiet measure.

The sheen of the dishes made her pause now and again, her gaze flickering to Roman at her side, as though his composure lent her courage.

Meanwhile, across the table, Lazarus and Samantha were almost a different story altogether.

While Roman’s silence was a shield, Lazarus’s ease was a bridge. He leaned close to Samantha, speaking lowly, his voice threading through the quiet hum of the hall.

Whatever he said was meant for her alone, for every few breaths Samantha’s lips curved into a smile, her cheeks tinged pink.

She lowered her gaze more than once, only to have it pulled back to him again, drawn into the warmth he offered so freely.

Their intimacy was not loud, yet it did not go unnoticed. Guests glanced their way—some with quiet amusement, others with wistful envy—as if watching a small flame flicker between them in a room otherwise heavy with history and ceremony.

The long table had begun to breathe with the rhythm of quiet conversation. Plates filled, emptied, then filled again as servants moved in soft steps between the guests.

The scrape of knives against porcelain, the clink of glass stems, the soft rustle of silks whenever someone shifted—all of it formed a low music beneath the evening.

Laughter rose in muted bursts from certain corners, while in others, voices were lowered as though secrets passed between friends.

Julia sat close to Roman, her fingers brushing the edge of her plate as though uncertain whether she should take more. She lifted her eyes to him once, just a glance, but he caught it.

"You’ve barely touched your food," he murmured, his voice pitched for her alone. His hand—steady, deliberate—shifted the platter of roasted vegetables closer to her. "Eat."

Her lips curved, the smallest of smiles. "I am eating," she whispered back.

"Not enough." He said it without looking at her, as though the act of watching her too openly would expose more than he intended.

Still, there was a quiet insistence in his tone, and when she reached for another portion, he allowed himself a single sip of wine, satisfied.

Across from them, Lazarus was less restrained. He leaned toward Samantha, his words punctuated by the faint tilt of his grin.

"You’re blushing again," he teased softly, low enough that only she heard.

Samantha ducked her head, her dark hair falling forward to shield her. "Because you won’t stop whispering nonsense."

"Not nonsense," he countered, cutting his meat with practiced ease. "Truth. And truth should never embarrass you."

Her laughter slipped out before she could stop it—light, warm, a sound that drew a few curious eyes from down the table.

She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head as though scolding him, though her gaze softened every time it met his again.

Julia noticed, and this time her heart softened. Warmth touched her features as she watched Samantha’s cheeks turn pink and Lazarus’s eyes glint with mischief.

She was glad for them—glad to see her friend so at ease, her happiness written so clearly across her face.

It was a rare thing in their world, this kind of joy, and Julia cherished it for her.

One of the older women farther down the table leaned toward her neighbor, her voice carrying just enough for Julia to catch:

"She’s lovely, but too quiet. Does she belong here, beside him?" The words stung, though the woman hadn’t meant them for her ears.

Julia lowered her gaze, her appetite slipping away.

At the head of the table, Mr. Belenti’s deep voice rose for the first time. "It has been some time," he said, his eyes sweeping the length of the guests. "Too long since this hall was filled with both grief and joy. Tonight we share both."

The clink of glasses followed as some lifted their wine in quiet agreement.

Roman inclined his head in acknowledgment, but his hand brushed against Julia’s beneath the table, the barest contact, as though to tether her in the moment.

She stiffened at first, surprised, before letting her hand rest near his, their fingers not quite intertwined but close enough to feel the warmth.

His touch steadied her more than she wished to admit, muting the echo of the woman’s words.

The meal stretched on, each bite carrying its own rhythm, until the plates grew lighter and the candles shorter.

The hum of voices thickened the air, softened by the haze of wine.

Somewhere beyond the hall, faint strains of music drifted in—distant yet unmistakable, a promise of what would follow.

And still, beneath it all, Julia felt the weight of eyes. She wasn’t certain whose—some admiring, some questioning, some perhaps critical—but she knew she was being seen, marked not only as Roman’s wife but as someone whose presence shifted the very balance of the table.

Roman seemed to sense it too. His expression did not change, but his hand finally closed over hers beneath the table, a firm, silent claim.

The last of the platters were carried away, leaving only the glow of the candles and the sheen of emptied glasses.

Conversation thinned to a gentle hum, the kind that floats after a satisfied meal.

A discreet bell sounded somewhere beyond the doors—one soft note, then another—as if the house itself were clearing its throat.

Mr. Bellanti rose first. Chairs scraped, garments rustled. He did not have to raise his voice; the room stilled on instinct.

"Friends," he said, the timbre of his grief and dignity braided into one, "we will honor the living and the departed as our house has always done: with steps remembered, shoulders close, and measured grace. The east gallery."

He inclined his head once. The servants opened the tall doors.

Roman stood, his palm a warm pressure at the small of Julia’s back. "With me," he said quietly, offering his arm. She set her hand in the crook of his elbow; he was composed heat and iron, and she let that steadiness guide her forward.

They moved with the others through a corridor that smelled faintly of beeswax and old cedar.

Portraits watched from the walls—long-limbed ancestors in dark coats, women with lace at their wrists and secrets in their eyes.

The floorboards gave a hush of sound beneath the procession of shoes, like waves withdrawn from a shore.

Samantha leaned toward Julia as they walked. "If I step on Lazarus’s foot," she whispered, a smile tugging at her mouth, "I’ll pretend it was part of the choreography."

"Please do," Lazarus murmured from Samantha’s other side, not looking at either of them, smirking anyway. "My pain always improves a performance."

Julia’s mouth softened. Their warmth made the long corridor feel less like a tunnel and more like a promise.

At the archway to the east gallery, attendants waited with light sashes of muted silk—mourning softened for the dance.

One tied a pale band at Julia’s waist, a courteous question in her eyes; Julia nodded.

The fabric hugged into a bow at her back. Roman’s was a darker strip, set diagonally across his shoulder, the knot brisk and precise.

Inside, the gallery opened wide—a polished bow of floor beneath chandeliers that dripped with lamplight.

Along the edges stood cushioned benches and low tables bearing water, wine, and bowls of sugared citrus.

At the far end, musicians tuned: a violin’s searching line, the deep clearing of a cello’s throat, pipes testing the air like birds trying it for spring.

A Master of Steps stood at the center, a slender cane in hand. He tapped it once on the floor, the sound crisp, and the crowd arranged itself with the ease of tradition.

Couples fanned into two parallel lines that mirrored each other like facing rivers.

Roman’s hand slid from Julia’s back to her fingers and stayed there, the contact small but absolute.