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28
Dominic
Lulu is scary, but Gia is downright frightening.
She sits next to me in the taxi, seat-belted in, her feet hanging off the seat, still pushing her agenda. “We could go to the cupcake place now.”
“No, we’re going to your Nonna’s place.”
When I made the trek to Brooklyn to bring Val something, I’d hoped for a heavy make-out session in her office. Not to be escorting the daughter of the woman who hates me to her grandmother’s house.
“What’s your name again?” she asks, crossing her arms. Her pink-and-black dance outfit is cute, but she screams attitude, just like her mother did at her age.
“Dom.”
“Dominic Mancini?”
I glance at her, away from my phone, where Val keeps sending apologetic text messages. “How do you know that?”
Her eyes narrow. “My mom and Auntie Val talk about you a lot.”
“What do they say?” I tuck my phone away. Now I’m interested in what this little fireball has to say.
There’s a bakery at the corner right before Gia’s grandmother’s house. They might not have cupcakes, but they have cookies. I lean forward and instruct the cab driver to stop one block up.
“You make Auntie Val cry. Why?”
Shit. My shoulders sag and I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know why she’d cry about me.” I do actually, but it depends how recent we’re talking.
“They were arguing about you. Right before the baby ruined my day.”
“Was Val crying then?”
The taxi stops at the corner and Gia looks out the window. “This isn’t Nonna’s.”
“There’s a bakery. I’ll buy you a cookie.”
She slides out after me, and I pay the cab driver through the passenger window.
“Are you Italian?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Why did you only buy one cupcake? Italians buy things in dozens, so everyone has one.” She strolls into the bakery as though she owns the place and didn’t just school me on Italian manners.
She’s right though. I should’ve brought Val an entire dozen cupcakes. One thing is for certain—if I’d done that, I wouldn’t be at a bakery with an eight-year-old right now.
We walk up to the cashier and she smiles at Gia. Don’t be fooled, woman. “How can I help you?”
“A dozen cookies,” Gia informs her with her face pressed to the glass.
The woman gives me a questioning look and I nod. I’ve learned my lesson.
I wait as Gia points out the cookies she wants, instructing the woman down to the specific cookie in the row of identical cookies. The girl explains that there’s a mistake on one and the colors are prettier on another. She’s so much like Lucia when she was younger, I feel as though I’m twenty-five years younger and it’s her in front of me. Thank God that woman has mellowed over the years.
“Nonna is gonna love them.” Gia beams at me as I pay for the cookies.
She grabs the bag and waves to a boy she must know from school. He’s sitting with his mother at one of the small tables.
