The Mafia's Forced Bride
She's gone.
The meme sits in my hand, unsent, and the soup goes cold.
"Aria." Natasha's voice, careful and close. She's been stationed at the adjacent workstation all morning, and I suspect now that it wasn't accidental. "Come sit with me for a minute."
"I'm working," I say.
"The bot network will still be there in ten minutes," Natasha says. "Come sit."
I follow her to the window seat at the far end of the command center, the one that looks out over the south garden. The roses are catching the late morning light. Giuliana's forty-year project, patient and thorough and still blooming.