The name lands at the center of the room. Lucia. Mrs. Santoro. The woman whose garden I’ve sat in a hundred times. Whose rosary I pulled from a burning building. Whose boy grew up to become the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.
One second of silence. Two. Then the room explodes.
“Ababy.“ Giada is out of her chair. She rounds to Cassia and has her in a bear hug before Dante can blink. ”Dante.A baby. I’m going to be an aunt. I’m going to be the best aunt. I’m already making plans. I’m calling Dr. Rowan in the morning for a referral.“
“Gia, she already has a doctor,” Dante starts.
“She has a regular doctor. She needs the best doctor. I know the best. Sit down, I’m handling this.”
“You literally just stood up.”
Nico leans back in his chair, grin spreading so wide it looks like it might split him open. “I’m going to be an uncle. I want that on record. Best uncle. It’s not a competition because I’ve already won.”
“You have not won,” Giada says from inside Cassia’s hair.
“I have. I’m making plans. I’m buying a tiny suit. I’m teaching this kid Italian, card tricks, and how to charm their way out of detention by age four.”
“God help us,” Marco says. But his mouth is doing something it doesn’t do often. The corners are lifting. Not a full smile. Marco doesn’t do full smiles. But the closest thing to one I’ve seen since the night of the raid.
“Every child needs exactly this many uncles and aunts,” Nonna Rosa declares. She has a napkin pressed to her eyes and she is not subtle about it. “Lord, Lucia’s watchin’. She’s watchin’ from those roses and she’s smilin’, I know she is.”
“I’m going to teach the kid to code,” I say, before I realize the words are leaving my mouth.
The words hang in the air and I hear them from the outside, the way you hear your own voice on a recording and don’t recognize it. That’s a woman with plans. A woman who assumes she’ll be here in five years, teaching someone else’s kid to code in a dining room that smells like gumbo.
When did I become that woman? I’m not sure. I don’t think she sent a memo.
Everyone turns to me. Nico’s grin widens. “Uncle Lorenzo, Aunt Isabella. Has a ring to it.”
“Uncle Renzo is going to terrify this child,” Giada says.
“Uncle Renzo terrifies everyone,” Lorenzo says. Flat. The smallest glint of humor behind it.
“Not me,” I say.
“Not you,” he agrees.
Nico stands. Raises his glass. “To the baby Santoro. Who will arrive in a family of criminals, be spoiled by a Cajun grandmother, and learn to hack government databases before kindergarten.”
“Nico,” Dante warns.
“I’m not wrong.”
“Sit down.”
“To the baby,” Nonna Rosa says, raising her own glass. Her voice catches but she pushes through it. “To Lucia’s grandbaby. May they have their papa’s strength, their mama’s grace, and their Uncle Nico’s charm.”
“And their Aunt Gia’s brains,” Giada adds.
“And Uncle Marco’s stubbornness,” Marco says, surprising everyone. “They’ll need it in this family.”
The laughter that follows isn’t polite or restrained. It fills the dining room, bounces off the ancestral portraits, rattles the chandelier. Loud enough that the guards in the hallway probably hear it. One of them shifts his weight. The holster creaks.
The sound sits under the laughter like a bass note, so constant I almost don’t hear it anymore. Almost.
Beside me, Lorenzo goes quiet. He finds his pocket. Thumb pressing the rosary once through the cotton. His breath catches. Then it releases, and he finds my hand under the table instead. His fingers close around mine, tight, a reflex he doesn’t have to think about anymore.
“Hey,” I say, under the noise.
