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Both glance up, their expressions freezing in a mix of surprise and curiosity. Neither of them saw this coming. First, Sophie isn’t Alina De Luca, whom they thought I’d be marrying. Second, Sophie isn’t Italian.
Slowly Father stands, then he extends a courteous hand to help Mother to her feet.
I stand protectively behind Sophie, my hands gently encircling her upper arms. “This is Sophie Kellan, the love of my life.”
A hush falls over the room, their reactions unfolding in slow motion—their mouths drop open in unison while a tender gleam lights up in Mother’s eyes, her hand fluttering to her mouth.
Father regains his composure first, his eyes sharpening. “Kellan?” he asks, probably hoping if there’s an iota of Sicilian heritage.
Before I can open my mouth, Sophie steps forward, a determined poise to her stance. “Yes, Kellan, from San Diego County. Signor and Signora Vitelli, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, her voice slightly rushed but clear, erasing all doubts, and fruitless hopes, about her roots. “There,” she murmurs to me, “the awkward part’s done.”
Father’s expression toggles back to astonishment, mirroring his initial reaction.
“It’s truly an honor,” Mother interjects, gracefully breaking the brief stalemate. She moves towards us, her voice warm. “Amata figlia mia,” she says, embracing Sophie in a genuine, welcoming hug.
My beloved daughter. Wow. I expected Mother to be nice, but this? It’s clear she already loves Sophie. Father remains momentarily shell-shocked, but I’m confident he’ll come around. Because it might be written in the stars somewhere: a pact that makes it impossible for any Vitelli not to fall for Sophie Kellan at first sight.
Dinner winds down with my mother openly charmed by Sophie, and Dante seemingly unsettled. Despite his outward calm, I sense he hasn’t fully shaken off my earlier comment about the ensuing dinner conversation. Catching his eye, I silently tell him to relax. “Lighten up, fratellino,” I mouth.
His silent reply is a terse, “Fuck off.”
I stifle a laugh behind my wine glass.
“Nico?” Sophie’s voice, slightly breathless, pulls my attention her way.
“Sì, amore,” I lean toward her.
“Where’s the bathroom?” She whispers.
I cock my eyebrow, sending her a heated look. “Now?” My hand is under her dress, high on her thighs. My fingers were absently tracing the edges of her knife holster and just about stroking higher toward her crotch.
“Nico, don’t even get any ideas. I’m serious. I just need to go.”
“Sure baby,” I murmur, not believing her. “Down the hall, take a right, first door left. Hurry back.”
Sophie excuses herself with grace, leaving the dining room with a swift, purposeful stride.
As the door closes behind her, my mother breaks the brief silence. “She’s quite the catch, Nico,” she nods approvingly.
“I couldn’t agree more, Mother,” I reply, my heart swelling with pride and something deeper, a profound sense of connection to Sophie that goes beyond words.
Dante grunts in agreement, but my father is silent. There’s something troubling him. He was too quiet all through dinner, a deep groove between his brows.
“What is it, Father?” I ask. Neither of us likes to beat around the bush.
“Kellan, was it?” he echoes with a cautious tone, and I nod in affirmation. “She seems like a good girl, Domenico.” It’s not a compliment. It’s a concern, weighing on him heavily—probably because she’s American.
Dante scoffs, but he covers it with a cough and looks away. I narrow my eyes at him until he once again keeps a straight face.
“Father, Sophie understands who I am and what I do,” I reassure him. “And did I mention she’s a therapist?
“She is?” He’s still bearing the look of slight confusion, no doubt wondering about its relevance is, until I add, “You were right Father. Self-awareness is indeed a virtue.”
My father’s eyes widen the moment he gets my meaning and I incline my head to confirm his suspicions. Suddenly his mouth quirks up in a small smile.
“Why the fuck is it that no one tells me anything anymore?” Father throws his hands up in exasperation, but his accusation is leveled at Dante.
Dante shrugs. “Don’t look at me. All intel goes to Don Vitelli here. I don’t make the rules, Father.”
