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“Okay,” he repeated, running his thumb across my chin and, at the hint of amusement passing through his eyes, I knew he left some grease there.
My stomach fluttered, but then dipped at the dark tone of his next words.
“I said I’ll never hurt you, Elena, but if I find out you’ve touched another man, there is nothing in this world that could save him.”
“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
—Seneca
“OH, CARA MIA! È COSÍ bello ascoltare la tua voce!”
“It’s good to hear your voice too, Mamma,” I responded dryly, even though I’d only been gone for a few hours. The tiniest bit of amusement rose in me.
Before Nico took the stairs two at a time, like he hadn’t threatened to kill any man who touched me, he’d handed over his cell phone when I said I needed to call home. I didn’t want his hand grenade of a phone, but apparently it was the only one in the house.
Mamma went on a tangent of, “How could your papà agree to this?” and “All my wedding plans, ruined!” for a solid five minutes. “You’re living with him, not married! It’s osceno!”
“It wasn’t my choice,” I mumbled.
“We’re only pushing the wedding back a week. I’m not letting that Russo get the cow for free.”
I closed my eyes. “Mamma, that’s not how the saying goes.”
“Who cares how it goes! He shoots my son, decides to marry one daughter, then steals the other! Non ci posso credere. How am I going to plan another wedding in time? And this arrangement? Disonora la famiglia, lo è—”
“You don’t have to plan it. Email me the list of what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”
She was crying now, through unintelligible Italian. “Mia figlia . . . sposata.” A switch flipped. “Fine. We’ll go to the dress shop tomorrow.”
I sucked in a shallow breath. I was getting married.
It felt so strange to my ears.
We went over a few wedding details, and then I asked about a couple of easy recipes I could experiment with. I wrote down the recipes on a notepad as I stood at the island, doodling when she went off topic, which was often and mostly about her unwed and pregnant daughter. I wanted to talk to Adriana and quell her worry about Ryan, but I wouldn’t until I knew for sure that Nico wasn’t lying to me. I wouldn’t raise her hope just to crush it.
I glanced toward the back door when it opened, and hesitation ran through me as I met a cold gaze. Luca halted, one hand on the handle, and then he stared at me for what felt like a minute. He shook his head, a small smile pulling on his lips as he took his cell phone out of his pocket and began texting while walking to the couch.
I swallowed, somehow feeling like I was the subject of that text, and then responded in the negative to my mamma’s “What am I, talking to a wall?”
As Luca sat on the couch and turned the TV on to a ball game, I finished writing down the recipes.
It wasn’t until I said goodbye and hung up that I realized Mamma believed Veal Milanese was an appropriate meal for a beginner. I sighed and then thought with some kind of masochistic inclination that I could invite Jenny over to help. Ugh.
Nico came down the stairs, hair wet, in a white dress shirt, gray tie, and pants. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he saw Luca lounging on the couch with one arm resting on the back, before continuing his descent.
The timer on the stove went off, and I pulled the baked rigatoni out of the oven. My mouth watered as garlic and basil filled the kitchen. It took a lot to ruin my appetite—apparently more than marrying a murderous don.
As I filled my plate, Nico’s presence brushed my side. I glanced at him and smiled as I could only imagine women had in the fifties.
“Hungry?”
A hint of amusement pulled on his lips. “Nah, I have a lunch meeting.” His gaze fell toward his cell sitting on the island. “You don’t have a phone?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to explain that it was taken from me six months ago, but Nico must have read it on my face. Something obscure sparked in his eyes. I wondered if he would ever question me about it, about him, but he only said, “We’ll get you one tomorrow.”
Truthfully, I hadn’t missed my p
hone. My friends were limited to my family. Outsiders could never truly understand me. I was a mold the Cosa Nostra had created, a triangle trying to fit in the square of society.
