Chapter 3: Gloves Off
"The bags under your eyes, the way your skin's looking kind of gray..." Enzo gestured vaguely. "My grandmother always said that's usually kidney stuff. Stress, you know? Bad circulation."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
"Oysters are incredible for that," Enzo continued, completely innocent. "Really gets the blood flowing again. Especially for men who've hit a certain age." He tilted his head. "How old are you? Fifty-five? Sixty?"
Ryan's face went through several shades of red. "I'm forty-eight, and there's nothing wrong with my—"
"Oh, forty-eight! That's when it really starts." Enzo's eyes brightened like he'd solved a puzzle. "My uncle Giuseppe had the exact same symptoms. Purple lips, tired eyes, that kind of... wilted look. One month of oysters and he was back to his old self."
The woman next to Ryan nearly choked on her champagne.
I leaned forward just enough to catch Ryan's eye. "Doesn't your girlfriend work in nutrition? She'd know exactly what you need."
His blonde companion looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
"Sorry, did I overstep?" Enzo looked genuinely concerned. "In Milan, people are super direct about health stuff. You don't mind, right? You seem like someone who appreciates honesty."
Poor Ryan was stuck. Say yes and accept the insult. Say no and look like a thin-skinned baby.
The woman in the Chanel suit jumped in with obvious desperation to change topics. "That's quite a talent, Enzo. What's next, palm reading?"
Wrong move, lady.
Enzo shook his head modestly. "Nothing mystical. My grandfather taught me to read people - posture, skin tone, the way clothes fit. You have to understand bodies to make beautiful clothes."
His gaze drifted to her outfit. "Speaking of which, that's the 2019 Chanel spring collection, isn't it? I remember studying that silhouette when I was still in school."
She practically glowed. "Exactly! Good eye."
"It's gorgeous," Enzo said, then paused. His brow wrinkled slightly. "Though... the fit seems a little off? The shoulders are swimming on you, and the waist is hitting you in the wrong place. It's making you look..." He searched for the right word. "Boxy?"
Her smile froze mid-beam.
"Oh wait, is it vintage?" Enzo's face lit up with understanding. "That explains it. Vintage pieces are so hard to alter properly. Still beautiful though!"
The silence that followed could have shattered crystal.
I stirred my soup thoughtfully. "Fit really is everything, isn't it? The most expensive piece in the world looks cheap if it doesn't work with your body."
She'd used almost those exact words earlier when she was taking shots at my "desperate image management." Funny how different they sounded now.
"Isabella, are you speaking Italian?" Enzo looked puzzled. "I missed that."
"Nothing important." I smiled sweetly. "Just agreeing with you."
When the main courses arrived, the atmosphere shifted. Scarlett went into full performance mode, letting Sebastian cut her steak while making little appreciative noises that carried across the table. It was like dinner theater, but less subtle.
Enzo, meanwhile, handled my lobster with the kind of easy confidence that comes from actually knowing what you're doing. His hands moved quickly, efficiently, turning a messy shellfish into perfect bites without making a show of it.
"You know," Ryan said, clearly trying to regain some ground, "young guys today are so... domestic. Not much masculine energy left."
He raised his glass toward Sebastian. "At least some men still understand what it means to be a gentleman. Know how to find a woman who appreciates that."
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
A short-haired editor at the far end put down her fork. "Are you interviewing for a girlfriend or hiring a housekeeper?"
"Seriously," added a PR woman. "What year do you think this is?"
I sipped my wine. "The fifties called. They want their dating advice back."
"Jesus, can't anyone take a joke anymore?" Ryan's voice climbed. "You feminists are so touchy."
Enzo looked up from where he'd been arranging food on my plate. "In my family, taking care of women is just what men do. My grandfather used to say that a man's job is to keep a woman's hands soft because those are the hands that create beautiful things."
He set the perfect piece of lobster on my plate, his movements unhurried, natural. "My grandmother is eighty-two now. Her hands are still smooth as silk because my grandfather never let her do anything rough. That's not old-fashioned - that's love."
I touched his wrist briefly. "Grazie, caro."
The editor smiled triumphantly. "Now that's what class actually looks like. It's not something you talk about - it's something you do."
Sebastian's jaw had gone tight. Even Scarlett looked uncomfortable, probably realizing her performance was being upstaged by the real thing.
Point, set, match.
Later, sliding into Enzo's car, I finally let myself breathe. The night had gone better than I'd dared hope.
"So?" Enzo glanced over as he started the engine. "How'd I do for my first New York dinner party performance?"
"Beyond perfect." I meant it. "You sure you're not secretly an actor?"
"Nah. I just hate watching people be disrespectful to someone I care about."
Something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. Someone I care about. The words sat differently than they should have.
"Your English is really good for someone with such a strong accent," I said, fishing for safer ground.
"Spent a year at Central Saint Martins. Plus I speak six languages." He grinned. "My grandfather insisted. He said fashion people need to talk to the whole world."
"Show off."
"Hey, you asked." He navigated through traffic easily. "New York's easy though. The hard part is learning each city's style language. Milan's different from London, London's different from Paris..."
I'd met Enzo three months ago during Milan Fashion Week while hunting for Montclair's new creative director. His work in a tiny Brera exhibition stopped me cold - traditional Italian tailoring twisted into something completely contemporary.
I offered him the job on the spot. He wanted international exposure, especially America. We worked out a deal: he'd head up creative for Montclair while I helped him break into New York Fashion Week.
Tonight was supposed to be a simple introduction to the local fashion crowd. Instead, it turned into guerrilla theater.
"If you ever need backup again, I'm your guy," Enzo said.
"Let's hope I won't." I tried to sound professional. "I expect you to focus on design first. This was just... an unusual circumstance."
"Yes, boss." He gave me a mock salute, then broke into that thousand-watt grin that probably melted hearts all over Milan.
Back home, barely out of my dress, I realized I had a voice message from Vivienne waiting for me.
"Darling! Just touched down in London and I'm dead on my feet, but I heard that tonight was quite the show. Details, immediately!"
Even at thirty thousand feet, her gossip network never sleeps.