Kyle extended his hand, and Anthony took it firmly. The handshake was warm, solid—the kind that spoke of genuine respect rather than performative politeness. Kyle's grip was confident but not crushing, a measured gesture that communicated equality without arrogance. Anthony's palm was calloused, the hand of a man who had worked with his hands despite his success.
"Tony," Kyle said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Good to see you again."
Behind them, Michelina appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Her eyebrow arched at the nickname.
"Tony?" she repeated, a hint of amusement in her voice. "He only lets his friends call him that."
Kyle glanced at her, then back at Anthony. "I hope that's alright."
Anthony chuckled, his broad shoulders relaxing. "It's more than alright. It means you've earned it."
