The door stays unlocked.
Progress.
EPILOGUE
ISABELLA
Three months ago, I sat at this table and counted exits.
The dining room of the Santoro compound, with its dark wood paneling and ancestral portraits and chandelier that costs more than my old apartment’s annual rent. I cataloged every window, every door, every potential weapon within reach. The butter knife. The heavy silver candlesticks. The sheer size of Lorenzo beside me, blocking the clearest path to the hall.
Tonight I’m counting something else.
Every chair filled around the table. Nonna Rosa’s gumbo steaming in the center, flanked by cornbread and collard greens and a bread pudding that’s been calling my name since I walked in.
Cassia passing the hot sauce to Dante, their fingers brushing in a way that looks accidental but isn’t. Giada laughing at something Nico said, her hand on his arm, the twin bond visible in the way they lean toward each other. Marco at the table instead of hovering at the edges, his shoulders set differently than they were a month ago.
And Lorenzo.
Lorenzo beside me, his thigh pressed against mine under the table, solid and warm and there in a way that has nothing to do with blocking exits.
Sofia sits on my other side. She hasn’t spoken yet. She may not speak tonight. But she’s here, at the table, wearing the soft sweater Giada bought her and letting Nonna Rosa pile food on her plate without pulling away. She tracks the conversation even though she doesn’t join it.
Three weeks ago she wouldn’t leave her room. Two weeks ago she started sitting in the garden while Lorenzo did his morning rounds. Last week she let Nonna brush her hair.
Mila sits by the window, pulled back from the table but still in the room. A plate of food beside her, half eaten. That’s new. Last week it would have been untouched.
“Isabella, cher, you’re not eatin’.” Nonna Rosa’s voice cuts through my inventory. “What did I tell you about pickin’ at your food like a bird?”
“I’m eating.” I hold up my spoon as evidence. “See? Eating.”
“That’s one bite. I made enough gumbo to feed an army and you’re sittin’ there countin’ the okra.”
“I wasn’t counting the okra.”
“Mais oui, you were. You got that look.” Nonna Rosa points her serving spoon at me. “The one that says your brain’s goin’ faster than your mouth. Eat first. Think later.”
Nico grins from across the table. “Give up, Isabella. Rosa always wins. Ask Renzo about the time he tried to skip dessert.”
“We don’t talk about that,” Lorenzo says.
“Two slices of pie,” Nico continues, ignoring him. “And an apology. To the pie.”
“The pie had feelings, apparently,” Giada adds.
Lorenzo’s face shifts. Barely. I take a deliberate bite of gumbo. The heat blooms across my tongue.
“Good girl,” Nonna Rosa says, satisfied. “Now. Someone tell me why Dante’s hand has been on Cassia’s belly for the last ten minutes like he’s protectin’ the crown jewels.”
The room goes quiet. Dante and Cassia exchange a look. The kind that requires no translation. Cassia’s cheeks flush. Dante’s hand on her belly spreads wider, protective.
“We were going to wait until after dinner,” Cassia says.
“Cher, I’ve been watchin’ that boy since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. You think I don’t know when a Santoro man is guardin’ somethin’ precious?” Nonna Rosa sets down her serving spoon. She’s beaming. “When?”
“Early summer.” Rough. “June, if everything goes well.”
Nonna Rosa’s hand flies to her chest. “A baby. Lucia’s grandbaby.”
