"Ah, Sicily," Jefferson began, his voice casual, yet still keeping an eye out for Adriel's behavior. "The vineyards, the history... There's a distinct tranquility there, the kind of peace you rarely find elsewhere."
Adriel looked like he was sitting on the edge of a knife, waiting for a moment to bounce. Ein furrowed his brow, once again at a loss of what exactly was going on.
As Jefferson spoke, the waiter returned, balancing a tray of elegantly plated dishes. He set down the salmon tartare with a flourish and then turned to Adriel, ready to serve his meal. "And for you, sir, the tomato basil soup—"
Just as the waiter placed the soup in front of him, Adriel feigned a sudden movement, purposefully bumping his knee against the edge of the table. The impact tipped the bowl, splashing some the red soup into Adriel's lap.
