Ma’s smile widened at Ariana’s manners. “Please, call me Marcella. It is so great to meet you. Aren’t you just a pretty, skinny little thing? You need some meat on your bones. Please come in and let me warm you up some lasagna.”
I ran a hand down my face. “No dinner, Ma. We don’t have time.”
“Of course, honey. It was just a suggestion. I’d never expect you to stay. I know you’re far too busy to spend much time with your mother. And I know my lasagna’s not nearly as good as Angel’s, but it’s edible.”
Oh, the guilt. Rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, I looked to Ariana and explained, “I complimented one dish of Angel’s, years ago, and she’s never let me live it down.”
“You told me I should ask him for the recipe,” Ma snapped.
“Never underestimate the level of pride an Italian mother has in her cooking,” I grumbled.
“I’m actually a little hungry,” Ariana said, smiling back at Ma. “And I’d love to try your lasagna and hear more stories about Franco.”
Shit.I gave her a warning look, but she avoided my gaze and continued to smile sweetly at Ma.
Blocking them off at the door, I said, “We don’t have much time, Ma. It’s late.”
“Late?” Ariana asked, turning her sweet smile on me. “We’re notthatold,Franco.”
Now she knew my real name. In a matter of minutes, I’d let her peek under the shield of anonymity I hid my family behind. What about this girl made me drop my guard?
“Of course, dear.” Ma steered Ariana around me and into the house.
David chuckled, watching me.
“Dumbass,” I growled, shoving him forward. “This is all your fault.” We followed Ma and Ariana into the kitchen.
“Language, Franco,” Ma said over her shoulder before focusing back on Ariana. “I just pulled somepizzellesoff the iron. How do you take your cappuccino?”
“Milk and sugar, please.” She looked at me and asked, “Pizzelles?”
“Cookies.”
“David, get the lasagna out of the fridge,” Ma said as she fiddled with the cappuccino machine. It whirred to life. “Franco bought me this beast for Christmas last year. Noisy, but it makes a great cup.”
“Pizzelles are fine, but we can’t stay long enough for lasagna,” I said. It was after midnight. Ma should be asleep and not waiting on us.
“Then you’ll just have to take it with you. David, cover that with foil and set it on the counter for you brother.”
“But I want some lasagna,” David whined.
“Well, you should have thought about that before you got thrown in jail,” Ma replied matter-of-factly while starting up a second cup of cappuccino.
We sat at the table, and Ma asked how my job was going. I gave illusive answers until she grew bored and turned her questions on Ariana.
“I’m waiting tables at the Pelican’s Roost,” Ariana said. “For now. It’s not what I want to do long-term, of course. I came to Vegas to sing.”
“You’re doing what you have to do,” Ma reassured her. “No shame in that. When Gino disappeared, I took any job I could to keep my boys fed. Spent more time cleaning toilets than I’d care to admit, but I finally got a nice office job.”
“Gino?” Ariana asked, glancing at me. “Is that your dad?”
“Yes,” Ma answered before I could. “The father of all three of my boys. Franco’s big brother, Tony, is living in California with his wife Trinity. They have one kid with another on the way.”
And Ma was telling Ariana way more than she needed to know. “We should probably get going,” I said, stepping in.
“Can I use your restroom?” Ariana asked.
“Yes, of course, dear. Down that hall, first door on the right.”
