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Veda leans over to share the window, then shifts her gaze from the view to my daughter. She observes Sarah’s color, energy, and how firmly she grips the seat arm. Then her eyes lift to meet mine over the small auburn head. “Two weeks, Sartorre.”

The business waiting below us has never once respected a calendar, and neither have I. A need-to-know fact that she doesn’t need to know.

Wheels touch at Malpensa in the last golden hour of the evening. Sarah takes Veda’s hand down the airstair without asking, and Veda folds the small fingers into hers without hesitating. It’s a sight to see, to memorize, to play back in my mind when she’s mad at me.

That she could be either of them.

By the cars, Milan settles over my face where the doctor can watch it happen. The wolf is home, and this time the wolf brought Little Red Riding Hood with him to Grandmother’s house.

7

VEDA

The drive from Malpensa runs forty minutes and about one century backward. Highway first, then mostly paved hills, then cypress rows and low stone walls framing cobblestone streets. Sarah narrates the whole route for my benefit—that’s the mountain, that’s the good gelato exit, that cow is named Paolo, probably. “… and that’s where Nonna likes to go for espresso, but Papa says she shouldn’t drink so much of it for her heart, so we don’t tell him when we go there anymore.”

He pipes up, “I knew it.”

Sarah grins, then goes back to narrating what’s outside the window.

Finally we come to iron gates with a scrolled S that swing open before our car finishes slowing. I won’t forget the creak of that gate hinge as long as I live. It sounds final somehow.

Gravel pops under the tires as we spin down the driveway. The two-story house at the end of the drive is ochre stone with a terra-cotta tile roof and dark shutters. At this time of evening, everything is either golden or dark. Every window on the ground floor is already lit.

“Nonna’s,” Sarah announces, in case I missed the last hour of coverage.

An old woman waits on the front steps in a sweater, dress, and pearls, silver hair wound into a bun, hands clasped at her waist. She is soft everywhere her son is hard. But the moment she sees Sarah, her face melts into a sweet puddle.

Sarah is out of the car while it’s still rolling to a stop. “Nonna!”

“Amore mia.” Diana folds her in, kisses her hair, then holds her out by the shoulders and checks her over. Whatever she finds passes inspection, because she pulls the child back in and rocks her side to side while she mutters kind Italian against her auburn wisps.

Lupo joins me at my side, and then it’s my turn.

“So.” Diana steps down two stairs and takes both of my hands. Her palms are warm, and her grip is steady. Her eyes first examine the ring, then my shoes and my posture. Finally, she looks at my face. “The wife.”

Lupo nods. “Yes, this⁠—”

“Signora Sartorre. Thank you for having me.” I am not letting this man introduce me.

“Diana. We are family now, no?” She kisses both my cheeks. Her English comes out smooth, barely accented. The smile is warm but calculated. Her guard is up. I can hardly blame her. “Come. Dinner is ready.”

The scents of tomato, woodsmoke, and beeswax hit as soon as she opens the front door. The marble floor is polished to a shine, and photographs line the staircase wall in mismatched frames. One photo features a small, furious boy in a sailor collar glaring at the camera, which I bookmark to revisit when I want a lift.

I can’t wait to needle Lupo with that one.

The kitchen reflects nothing of the rest of the house. Copper pots hang along the walls in an order I imagine makes sense to Diana. Various ancient tools do too. I recognize exactly one—an old-fashioned eggbeater with a wooden crank. The refrigerators are mismatched. One avocado green and born sometime in the forties, the other stainless steel and modern. Her sink makes me jealous—gleaming white and big enough to bathe in. The window over it looks out onto a vineyard, I think. It’s dark out there, and I’m not good with plants.

Or cooking. This room is all worn wood and warmth, and I am utterly out of my depth. Even the faded red tile floors show decades of love in their uneven grout. This is a kitchen that is used. A lot.

Diana prepared everything herself: handmade tagliatelle, beef so tender it didn’t need a knife, dark-crust bread, and wine from the hillside behind the house. A record plays on a sideboard console, piano jazz softly under the conversation. Diana hums as we all pile into the kitchen, Nick included.

So, he’s definitely family.

She seats me at her right hand, which anyone in the hospital hierarchy recognizes as the interrogation chair. “Tell me how you met my son.”

“At a medical conference in Boston. I gave the keynote. He asked better questions afterward than the oncologists did.”

“He would.” Pride and apology share the sentence evenly. She refills my wine without asking. “And two weeks later, a courthouse? Fast, no?”