We should be in Naples lighting candles in the window and walking through the streets to see the processions.
Instead, we’re here in Dante's villa, making buns in a kitchen that still doesn’t feel like mine.
It never will.
It's stained with too much tension and fear.
Sofia sits at the table arranging tea lights on a small tray.
She hums a carol while she works, completely absorbed in making sure each candle sits perfectly straight.
Marta smiles at her and adds saffron threads to the bowl of dough.
"Your daughter has a good eye for detail," Marta says to me.
"She gets that from her grandmother," I reply. "My mother was the same way."
"Was?"
"She passed away when I was nineteen."
Marta's expression softens. "I'm sorry to hear that, dear."
I nod and return my attention to the dough.
Marta shows me how to knead it properly, folding and pressing until the texture is smooth and elastic.
The work is soothing.
The repetitive motion gives my hands something to do while my mind wanders.
I think about Dante's words from yesterday.
The possessiveness in his voice when he made me tell him I’m his made something inside me come alive and hope again.
Never has a man ever laid such a firm claim to me or my heart, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.
It's a strange mixture of safety and fear.
The door to the kitchen opens and Dante walks in carrying two small boxes wrapped in gold paper.
Sofia looks up and her face lights up.
I wasn't expecting this any more than she was, and she seems thrilled to see him.
"What's that?" she asks.
"Gifts for St. Lucia's Day," Dante says.
He walks to the table and sets the boxes down. "One for you and one for your mother."
He meets my gaze, and I feel heat creeping into my cheeks. St. Lucia's gifts are for children, not adults.
I don't know what he was thinking.
Sofia's eyes go wide. "Really?"
"Really. Open yours first."
