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“No one locked you in, snowflake,” I say before swallowing down the last of my coffee.
“But didn’t he?” she retorts, which gains my father’s hard stare from where he is across from me. He’s eyeing her over my head, not an ounce of humor in his near pitch-black gaze. “I don’t play nice with my own daddy. If you thought I was going to shape up for my new one, then you were mistaken, boss man,” she says, mocking his title and his authority.
Before he or anyone else can comment back, Brooklyn’s iPad starts ringing. Apparently not the least bit fazed by what’s transpiring in the kitchen, she answers it with a joyous tone in her greeting. “Hey, Nana. Guess where I—”
“Put your father on the line,” the woman says, cutting the kid off. The Italian American accent is thick, reminding me of my mother, which makes me conclude this must be Matteo’s mother on the other line.
“Ooh, Daddy. I think you’re in trouble. Nana has that look.” Brooklyn’s eyebrows go up far on her forehead, giving Matteo a warning as she pushes her iPad toward her dad.
“Morning, Ma. What did I do now?” he says, flipping the device around to face him.
“You could start by explaining why on earth I had to find out my only son is engaged on the morning news while I was cooking your dad breakfast. That is not the son I raised, so please, by all means, tell me why I didn’t hear it from your mouth before the media found out, Matteo.”
“Ma,” Matteo says with a reasoning tone. “I can explain.”
“Was that supposed to be secret?” Sasha chirps as she sidles next to me on an empty stool to my left. “Oopsie.”
