“I’m not.”
“Eat.”
Cassia takes two pieces of bread. Nonna Rosa nods and turns her attention to Marco, who also needs to eat more despite being built like he could bench-press a small car.
Renzo says something quiet to Gia that makes her roll her eyes but smile. Marco argues with Nico about something that happened three years ago and requires extensive fact-checking. Nonna tells a story about the first time my mother made her red gravy and how it took six tries before she got the seasoning right.
“Stubborn woman,” Nonna says, a warmth in her voice that could break you. “Wouldn’t let me help. Said she had to learn it herself or it wouldn’t count.”
“That sounds like Mama,” Gia says.
“That’s your mama through and through. God rest her.”
The table goes quiet. Not heavy. Just an acknowledgment. Lucia Santoro has been dead for over a decade, but her recipesfill this room. Her traditions. Her insistence that family meant something, even when it was dangerous.
Cassia squeezes my hand.
I squeeze back.
After dinner, the dining room empties in waves. Nico excuses himself first, claiming an early meeting that sure as hell doesn’t exist. Marco follows, his stride unhurried for once, no backward glance at the door.
Renzo lingers by the door while the others filter out. Once we’re alone, he steps closer. Lowers his voice.
“There’s been activity in our systems. Someone poking around. Testing firewalls.”
My hand closes around the back of the nearest chair. “Benedetti?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He’s too calm. Too measured. Which means he’s three steps ahead and doesn’t like what he’s seeing. “I’m close to tracing the source.”
“You need resources?”
“No.” Clipped. Final. “I’ll handle it.”
I study him. The hollows under his eyes are deeper than they were at the wedding. His hand drifts to his jacket pocket, the one where he keeps Mama’s rosary, and I catch the faint click of the beads before he stops himself. He used to do that only when he thought nobody was watching. Now he’s doing it in front of me.
He leaves before I can push further. But I know my brother. Whatever he’s hunting, it’s gotten under his skin. Become something more than security protocols and digital signatures.
Fuck.
That’s twice now. Twice I’ve watched him walk away carrying something he won’t name. I’ll push harder next time. He won’t like it. But he’s my brother, and I’m done letting the people I love disappear into their own damage.
Dio, I should have pushed tonight.
Gia hugs Cassia for a long time before she goes. I don’t hear what she whispers, but Cassia’s eyes are bright when they pull apart.
Then the kitchen is just us. And Nonna.
I stand in the doorway, watching.
Cassia has her sleeves rolled up, helping Nonna Rosa with the dishes. Their voices are low, intimate. Nonna’s hands move with the efficiency of someone who’s done this ten thousand times. Cassia watches, mirrors.
“Lucia would have loved you,” Nonna says.
Cassia’s hands still on the plate she’s drying.
“I wish I could have known her.”
“Oh, dawlin’.” Nonna turns to face her, soapy hands and all. “You do know her. Every time you sit at that table. Every time you make him smile. Every time you keep this family together when it wants to fly apart.”
