Page 97 of The Cost of Silence

And as our chaotic mafia-cooking-thanksgiving-unit moves into the next task, I realize something:

I didn’t just bring Christmas into Nico’s penthouse.

I broughtfamilyback into it.

And it fits. God, it fits so well.

Nico comes to stand next to me again, his shoulder brushing mine. “See, it’s fine,” he murmurs.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Maybe a little.”

He smirks. “Told you.”

He slides his fingers into mine, below the counter where no one can see, and it sends a warm buzz through my entire body.

Today is going to be chaotic.

It’s going to be loud.

It’s going to be messy, emotional, terrifying.

But as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice a rumble only I hear: “You belong here, Belle.”

…I start to believe it.

For the first time in my adult life, I don’t feel like I’m drifting.

I feel like I’m home.

And that scares me more than anything ever has.

But it also feels right.

So I tighten my hold on his hand and whisper back: “Happy Thanksgiving, Nico.”

His thumb strokes my knuckles once. “Happy Thanksgiving, Belle.”

27.Nico

The dining roomlooks different tonight.

Not physically, it’s still the long walnut table, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Manhattan skyline, the low lighting Matteo insists sets the “mood.”

But there’s something else here now.

Warmth. Laughter. Family.

Something I wasn’t sure we’d get back after my father died. Everything felt fragile, unmoored, like we’d lost our way. It’s that the woman I thought had pulled the pin on the grenade that would splinter us, is the one putting us back together.

Isabella sits beside me, cheeks pink from cooking, her hair twisted up, a stray curl escaping to frame her face. Letty is across from her, coloring with unnerving focus. My mother-in-law, no, not that, not yet,Isabella’s mothersits to my right, posture relaxed but eyes taking in everything.

Matteo carved the turkey (perfectly, of course, nobody touches his kitchen kingdom, except maybe a bossy Italian mother), while Adi handled vegetables and gravies, and Letty made a mess of cookies that look like meteor impacts but taste good enough to forgive.

Now the food is spread in front of us, an obscene amount of it:

Roasted turkey, crispy potatoes, green beans with garlic, mac and cheese (Matteo’s “secret” recipe he pretends isn’t a family treasure), fresh bread, four pies, and a cinnamon apple crumble Isabella’s mother made.

I clear my throat. “We’re doing this the proper way,” I announce. “Somebody start. What are you thankful for?”