“Is he talking to…?” Avery whispers at Eli, who manages to nod through Tiny’s vigorous licks.

“He sure is.”

She grins. “Poor Molnar. Is he alive? Should we start digging a hole?”

“Not yet, but I am worried about his mental health.”

“You are wrong,” Conor says, staring at the phone like it’s a feral child taking a piss in his lawn. His expression is a special blend of exhaustion and disgust that only old-money people can successfully pull off. His profile, which once awed me enough to force me to educate myself about the anatomy of the zygomatic bone and its relationship to the maxilla, is identical to when I last saw him. He must have shaved not too long ago. This morning, maybe. “But wrong, Tomas, I can forgive. The issue is how profoundly tedious this has been.”

Eli winces, amused. Avery’s smile widens.

“I’m not going to ask my VPs or my quants to waste a week running ad hoc analyses and throwing together a goddamn macaroni craft project for you to put on your fridge,” Conor continues. “If you want to pretend that you’re playing the capital aggregation game, do it on your time. We know at a glance that the equity check won’t hit our threshold.”

“That’s not how it works, Hark.”

“That’s how we work. Our investing process is rigorous, and we’re not backsolving a PnL so that your daughter’s boyfriend can get a cash influx for a startup that’ll never gain enough market share to be sustainable.”

“As a partner, I get a say—”

“Not with a conflict of interest of this size. Not with no one else backing the deal. Not as a limited partner. We have these things called words, and they have meanings.”

Eli and Avery exchange silent laughter, and I glance away, taking in the view. Which is so breathtaking, Conor’s Irish-accented financespeak fades into a remote corner of my brain.

Villa Fedra, where the wedding party will be staying, was built on top of a hill. Like most historical homes in Taormina, it perches on the cliffside—according to my travel guide, as defense from pirate attacks, and to make the most of the breeze in the sweltering Sicilian summers. Knowing that, I always expected the landscape to be somewhat craggy. I had not, however, imagined how steep the overlook would be. The abrupt plunge of the rocky cliff into narrow white beaches, and the never-ending stretch of the sea.

Ionian, as I now know.

It’s too much. Too beautiful. The turquoise waters and dark green trees are too bright, like some AI-generated postcard. Except that when I move a few feet from the car and lean forward, palms flat against the stone balustrade installed to keep tipsy visitors from smashing themselves against the rock wall, a gust of wind blows against my face.

It hits my jet-lagged, semicomatose brain that this place actually exists. As implausible as it seems, I’m here. And turning my head southwest makes reality even more questionable, because dominating the view is Mount Etna. The most active volcano in all of Europe. A squat, gently sloped presence. It rises and rises and rises, culminating in a black peak that’s at once terrifying and majestic.