“Exactly.” Olivero nodded, entirely too pleased with himself. “See? You are smart. Emotionally delayed, but smart.”
“It’s completely out of the question.”
He shrugged and opened his own container. “Unless you’re desperate enough.”
I glared at him. “I hate when you’re helpful.”
“No, you hate when I’m right.”
“That too.” I leaned back on the stool and let out a long breath. “Dragging my mother and aunt into this feels like cheating.”
“Please. Your entire family has been interfering in your love life since I can remember. At this point it would simply be formalizing the process.”
I let that sit because, annoyingly, he was not wrong.
“Or,” I said slowly, “I give her the true choice.”
Olivero frowned. “What would that be?”
I looked at my half-empty plate for a moment before answering. “Stepping down as sotto capo.”
He stopped eating.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I said nothing.
He looked at me, eyes narrowing, and slowly raised his brows. “You’re serious.”
“If that’s what she wants…” I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “I don’t know. I won’t make the same mistake twice and decide for her what she can or cannot live with. But I can offer her the option. The real one. Me as I am, or me outside of it, if that is what would make a life with me possible.”
Olivero stared at me for a beat longer, then whistled low under his breath.
“Well,” he said. “That is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard or the beginning of a family civil war.”
“Possibly both.”
“Your father is going to love this.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Your mother will cry.”
“Almost certainly.”
“Matteo will call you weak for three to five business years.”
“That would require him to shut up eventually, which seems optimistic.”
Olivero laughed at that, then set his fork down and leaned against the counter. “And if she doesn’t appreciate the potential sacrifice?”
I held his gaze before looking away.
“Then I’ll call my mother and aunt for help.”
He pointed at me with his fork. “See? Growth.”
"You're an asshole," I said.
