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Mama’s already pleasant expression turns into a wide, brilliant smile when she enters the room and sets sight on the two of us. “Francesca informs me that dinner will be coming out shortly,” she announces, waving Emilia over to her. It’s been a few years since a slip and fall ended in my mother breaking her knee, and Papa insisted on bringing in our chef, Francesca, to keep her off her feet. She’s gotten used to it over time but insists on supervising.
“Come, sit with me. You don’t know how wonderful it is to have another woman in the house. I can’t seem to interest my oldest child in finding a nice girl.”
Dante sounds like he’s choking, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ve been a little too busy for that,” he points out in his usually stuffy way. Like he’s above a relationship, but I can’t pretend I haven’t felt the same way.
Before Emilia, settling down was the last thing on my mind.
Mama rolls her eyes at her oldest son. “Honey, it takes no time at all to make a girl want to stick around if you know what you’re doing.”
Emilia bursts out laughing, quickly clapping a hand over her mouth, and the sound leaves me laughing with her. The pleasure of watching Dante flush with embarrassment is icing on the cake.
The only person who doesn’t seem to be enjoying this is the man already seated at the head of the table. Staring across its length, his gaze is unfocused as if he sees something far away. Something none of us can see but him. He’s understandably distracted by everything he’s juggling now.
Emilia sits at Mama’s right, and I sit beside her, keeping an eye on my father. There’s something off with him. A glance at Dante reveals nothing since, as usual, he’s got his head so far up his ass he barely notices anything around him.
Once Francesco and Niccolo join us, it’s time to start the meal. We know better than to discuss business at the dinner table, but the meaningful glances exchanged between my cousins and me tell a story of their own. We’re in a holding pattern, playing it cool, refusing to take the bait Vitali has dangled so enticingly in front of us. Meanwhile, Papa and Dante are hard at work gathering our allies, ensuring we tighten the ranks and strengthen any weak spots.
“How are you?” Mama asks Emilia in a warm, caring tone.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Emilia assures her. I can almost feel the gratitude rolling off her. Considering the icy reception from the men at the other end of the table, it must feel like a miracle to be accepted.
“Everything went well today?” Mama prompts in a softer voice, barely shy of a whisper. Emilia’s head bobs up and down. I wish I knew whether she’s merely reluctant to speak about her resignation openly or if there’s emotion behind her silence. Pushing her to open up won’t do any good, but I have to try in time.
I look to the other end of the table. Papa is in a world of his own, unmoving, almost unblinking until I clear my throat. It’s a relief when he jumps a little. At least he’s alive and breathing. “I’m tired,” he confesses when I continue staring at him in concern.
“Can’t imagine why,” Dante mutters while typing on his phone. The screen’s glow casts a sickly light over his face, not that he didn’t already look like shit. As underboss, he’s feeling the strain.
Momma clears her throat, a not-so-subtle cue to put the phone down at the family dinner.
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” I grit out through clenched teeth. Emilia is deep in conversation with the other women, so she isn’t privy to that comment.
“Boys, stop fighting.” My cousin, Niccolo, winks at Papa, trying to lift everybody’s spirits the way he always has. “You’re both pretty.”
Papa snorts. It’s better than sitting there with a blank face, I guess. “They won’t be so pretty after I knock their heads together for bickering like toddlers. The time is going to come when we all need them to step up.”
“Not for years yet,” I insist flatly. It’s a reflex. I’m not about to entertain the idea of him stepping down anytime soon. I don’t want to consider the implications for him, the family, and the business.
He barely manages the ghost of a smile, sitting up straighter and reaching for the platter of meatballs and sausage. “So, Guilia,” he calls out with a fatherly sigh. “You’d better not plan on making too big a dent in my platinum card with this shopping trip.”
We put on a front for the women and kids, sheltering them from the worst of what our world involves. It’s what we do. I never understood until now how painfully obvious the act is and how the women only pretend to buy it.
The way I’m pretending to buy it now.
3
EMILIA
The knocking wakes Luca before it wakes me. I roll over when he gets out of bed, barely conscious of anything other than his weight shifting the mattress. Slumber overtakes me again until there’s another knock at the front door, and now I understand I didn’t dream the first one.
Luca pulls on his pajama pants, which ended up on the floor last night after I stripped them off him. He gestures for me to stay in place, then leaves the bedroom while I push myself up on my elbow and try to wake up in case something important is happening.
The front door opens a moment later, followed by Luca’s exasperated groan. “What the hell are you doing here this early?” he asks, and the obvious irritation in his voice tells me it’s not his dad or brother or even one of his cousins.
“I wanted to know if Emilia wants to go shopping today.”
Sleep is nothing but a memory when I identify Guilia’s chipper voice. I fumble around on the nightstand, trying to find my phone in a room where blackout curtains leave me with no sense of day or night. It’s already past nine o’clock? I guess that’s what happens when you spend most of the night fooling around the way we did.
“It’s not even that early,” Guilia points out, and I press my face to the pillow to muffle a laugh. She isn’t wrong, but things like responsible bedtimes tend to get overlooked when you’re still in the honeymoon period.
