Just get through today. And then it’s over.
Nonna Rosa’s hand lands on my shoulder. I didn’t hear her approach.
“That man,” she says, voice low, “has been carryin’ this family since he was twenty-three years old. Eleven years. No help, no rest, no one to lean on.”
I turn to look at her. Her eyes are bright, knowing.
“You’re good for him,cher.I’ve watched him these past weeks. The way he looks at you. The way he sleeps.” She squeezes my shoulder. “He’s different. Better. Because of you.”
The words lodge in my throat, too big to escape.
“Now.” Nonna Rosa releases me, all business again. “That dough won’t shape itself. Come on. We got work to do.”
I follow her back to the counter. Pick up where I left off. Push, fold, turn.
The rhythm steadies my hands, my heart, my spinning mind.
Outside, the sun climbs higher. Golden light spills through the windows, turning the kitchen warm and bright. Maria hums at the stove. She tastes the gravy and nods.
Sunday. Family. Home.
I shape the dough into rounds and set them to rise. Wipe the flour from my hands. Let the golden light warm my skin through the window.
Nonna Rosa tastes the gravy one more time, nods, and sets the spoon down with the quiet satisfaction of a woman whose kitchen is running the way it should.
Tonight, Dante handles Romano.
Tomorrow, we wake up in a house that’s ours. No lies hiding behind the walls. No traitor sitting at our table.
I flatten my palms against the cool marble and breathe.
Four. Five. Six.
The count settles into my pulse, a rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat.
Finally.
22
DANTE
The table is full.
I can’t remember the last time I saw it this lively. All of us, gathered. Gia drove in from the hospital. Nico made it back from wherever he disappears to. Even Marco is here, and for once he’s not vibrating with that desperate energy that makes me want to send him away.
Nonna Rosa moves between us, setting down platters, filling glasses, murmuring in French when someone reaches for bread before she’s ready. The dining room smells like her cooking. Rich, savory, the scent of every Sunday I can remember. Candles flicker in the iron holders Mama brought back from Palermo. Crystal catches the light.
And Cassia.
Cassia at my right. In the chair that’s been empty for years.
She’s not replacing anyone. She’s taking her own place.
I let my gaze travel the table. Cataloging. Assessing. Old habits.
Renzo at my left, silent as always. His eyes track the room even now, even here, even surrounded by family. One hand restson the table. The other is in his lap, near his pocket. The rosary. He thinks we don’t notice.
Gia beside him, her dark hair pulled back, still in the silk blouse she wore to work. She looks tired. She always looks tired. But her eyes are bright as she leans toward Renzo, saying something too low for me to catch. His mouth twitches. Not a smile. But close. The closest I’ve seen in longer than I care to count.
