Page 90 of The Kingpin’s Bride

“This one is mad.”

Matteo looked at me like I might translate. I only raised my eyebrows. He was on his own.

“That’s because… he had a bad day,” he said finally.

Camilla accepted this immediately. Bad days made sense. She traced the line of a vine next, tongue poking out in concentration.

“This one is a plant. Plants are nice. You should give the bird a plant. Then he won’t be mad.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Matteo’s mouth twitched. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

She wasn’t done. She pushed his sleeve up another inch with both hands, small and bossy. She found the numbers.

“Is that your birthday?”

“No.”

“Is it my birthday?”

“No, little lady.”

She looked personally offended. “Then whose?”

“No one’s you know.” He smiled. “His name was Angelo.”

She sat back in my lap, thinking hard, then announced her verdict to the room. “You have a lot of secrets on your skin.”

Matteo’s throat worked. “Yeah.”

“I have a secret too,” she said, suddenly generous. She pulled her pink jacket sleeve up and showed him the inside of her own wrist, completely blank. “I am going to draw a star there. With a marker. So we match. But mine won’t hurt at all. I can teach you.”

I felt the laugh leave me before I could stop it.

Matteo stared at her bare little wrist like she’d offered him something holy and ridiculous at the same time. Then, very slowly, he turned his own arm so the angriest bird faced her again.

“He says okay,” he muttered. “About the plant.”

Camilla beamed. She leaned in and, with the solemn ceremony of a child bestowing a knighthood, planted a sticky marshmallow-cereal kiss on the back of his hand, right over the ink.

“There,” she said. “Now he’s less mad.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Matteo

Imade an Italian breakfast the way my sister Aurora used to make it for Santino and the girls on Sundays, when everyone was home.

Fresh ciabatta toasted in olive oil with garlic. Soft scrambled eggs with cream and chives. Crispy pancetta. Roasted tomatoes with oregano. A big bowl of sweet ricotta mixed with honey and lemon zest. Fresh blood oranges cut into rounds. Espresso for the adults. Warm milk with a little sugar for Camilla.

I could picture Aurora at the big stove in the Moretti kitchen, hair tied back, telling Santino to set the table while the kids tried to steal pancetta. The memory sat strangely soft in my chest.

The table looked like excess. I wanted it that way.

Morena appeared first, barefoot, wearing one of my shirts that hit mid-thigh. The cut on her cheek was cleaner. She stopped in the doorway and stared at the spread.

“You cooked again.”

I watched her take a bite of the ricotta. “Tell me what you actually like to eat. Not what you think you’re supposed to force down. Real answer.”