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“Not bad,” he says, staring at the ceiling and smacking his lips.

“Not bad?” Nonno scoffs. “Don’t give me that, boy. That’s the best damn Sunday gravy you’ve ever had.”

“A little more oregano, and it will be,” Luca dares to say.

Oh, crap.

He’s pushing his luck.

But Nonno doesn’t argue.

He accepts the criticism with a nod, pinches some in, and takes a slurp off another tasting spoon.

“Okay, okay. Now we’re talking. Some more pepper?”

“Maybe a shake.”

Nonno adds a big shake.

“Sugar?” I propose.

They both look at me like I’ve grown horns and a tail.

“Will you listen to her? I don’t know where she gets her sense of humor, but it’s not mine.” Nonno shakes his head like I’ve uttered blasphemy.

In this house, I basically have.

“What? I like it a little sweet,” I protest, knowing I’m clearly overruled.

Nonno takes another taste, nods with satisfaction, and smiles.

Then he turns off the stove and I hand him the gravy boat.

As he ladles it in, Luca motions to the Twins pennant on the wall and says, “So what do you think their chances are this year?”

“Not good! I’d feel better if those bums had a pitcher who could throw worth a damn. I miss my Mariners.” He sighs roughly.

I want to add something, but baseball is so not my cuppa tea, and cooking big meals, less so.

I learned everything I know about both from Nonno.

But Luca, he’s right at home discussing whatever my grandfather brings up.

So much for the stony-faced, stoic shadow man.

It’s weird how well they get along.

At one point, they start talking halfway in Italian, and I feel like a stranger in my own home away from home.

I’ve picked up a smattering over the years, sure, but nothing like Nonno whose parents were new arrivals. Plenty of beautiful Italian-Americanisms thrown in, too.

They keep chatting until dinner’s ready. The smell is so divine my stomach growls like a bear, despite my nerves.

We sit at the small table in the dinette, which Nonno covered in the delicate lace cloth Nonna made years ago.

He’s brought his game tonight, even dragging the old crystal salt and pepper shakers we never use out of storage. I think they were handed down from some relative back in the old country.

“I’m going to need the recipe for this after we’re done,” Luca says, polishing off his second piece. “Recipe to die for, Max. What do you use for the filling?”