The final, venomous syllable had barely left Diana's mouth when Damien grabbed the silver fork resting next to his untouched plate of carbonara.
THWACK.
The sound of metal violently biting into solid wood echoed like a gunshot across the hushed dining room of Il Cigno.
Diana flinched, a sharp, involuntary gasp tearing from her throat.
She looked down.
The silver fork was driven deep into the expensive mahogany table, the thick tines vibrating from the force of the impact.
It was planted exactly one millimeter away from the edge of Diana's hand. It was so close that the outermost prong of the fork had sliced a razor-thin line right through the fleshy side of her palm. A single, bright bead of crimson blood instantly welled up on her skin, accompanied by a sharp, burning sting.
If Damien had aimed even a fraction of an inch to the left, he would have impaled her hand directly to the table.
