“It’s just beef, dear, rolled into a cute little shape with a filling inside.” Lucia is watching me with something so kind and warm on her face, it breaks my heart into little pieces.
She sincerely wants me to eat and like the food. Even if she also sincerely wants me to date her son—and I think by now we all know that isn’t going to happen—she’s welcoming and warm. She reaches across the table and rubs Vito’s arm, urging him to show me how to eat it.
“Ma, stop hovering. You’re makingmenervous. You expect the woman to eat while you’re obsessing over every bite?” Gracie is seated next to me, and all three Bianchi sons are across from us on the other side of the table. Gracie takes her braciole in her fork and shows me how to remove the string. “It’s just butcher string,” she tells me. “Totally sanitary and safe to cook with. It’s not like Dad has a sewing kit in the kitchen he uses to wrap up meat with.”
I laugh nervously and way too loudly at that, but Mario and Lucia chime in and chuckle. I avoid looking across the table at any of the Bianchi boys and copy what Gracie did, unwrapping the string from the beef.
I don’t even need a knife to cut into the thin, tender, rolled strip. I take a bite and widen my eyes, looking from Gracie to Mario. “Holy crap,” I gasp as soon as I swallow. “That is…” I’m searching for the right word, while Mario waves a hand at me.
“If you don’t care for it, don’t eat it.” He’s trying to be nice, but I’m not.
“No,” I say over him, finding my voice. “This is exceptional. I mean, like, the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. It tastes like…”
“Home?” Lucia offers. She sighs and leans back in her chair. “I knew you’d love it. Braciole was your aunt’s favorite.”
Gracie swirls a forkful of pasta against the inside of a large spoon and cocks her head my direction. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
This question gets the whole table’s interest. I avoid the stares of the handsome trio across from me and look down at my food.
“You can have half of mine,” Benito blurts, laughing at his own joke. “I don’t even care which two.”
Vito slugs his brother on the shoulder and calls him an asshole, which prompts a whole new round of scolding about language from Lucia and Mario.
“Let her answer,” Mario says, shaking his head. “But yeah, if you want one of these knuckleheads, help yourself. You should probably take the one with the smart mouth.”
“What did I do?” Gracie blurts before Mario can point to which of his knuckleheads has the smart mouth, and everyone is laughing, even me.
When the giggles calm, I shake my head and answer her. “I don’t,” I said. “Only child.”
They receive that news like I’ve just said my puppy had been run over by a car, so I can only hope no one asks about my parents.
Alcoholic, abusive dad. Depressed nurse mom… Yeah, I’ve got all the fun stories when you start to dig for them.
Instead, I decide to turn the tables. “What about you?” I ask, turning to look at Lucia. “Did you and Mario always want a big family?”
Lucia starts talking about how she and Mario are both from big families, but as she speaks, I look down at my plate and spear the last bite of my beef.
I can’t help but peek at Franco. He’s like the sun, and I’m a seedling just yearning to soak up some of his life-giving strength.
My heart rate speeds up when I see he’s watching me, chewing slowly and deliberately, his intense blue eyes locked on me.
Under his hot gaze, I shift uncomfortably in my chair and look away. I hurry to chew my last bite of braciole while Lucia finishes her story.
“After all of that, none of these idiots are mine. They’re all adopted.”
“You wish,” Benito says. “You have no one out there to blame for how we turned out. This is all you and Dad.”
The table has turned rowdy and loud, but that’s fine with me. No one is asking me any more questions, instead focusing on Benito’s restaurant, Vito’s job at the fire station, and the latest drama at the animal shelter where Lucia volunteers.
When Gracie gets up to start clearing her plate, I jump up to help, but she stops me with a hand. “Please,” she says. “You’re our guest.” She takes my plate from me, and as I sit back down, I feel it.
I feel him.
Franco’s eyes are following my every move. I swallow back my nerves as a little zing of electricity brings my body to life.
My belly is warm and full, but there’s a different kind of pleasure when I feel Franco’s eyes on me. He looks away when my eyes meet his, and I wipe my clammy hands on my thighs.
The meal was delicious, and the company—once they stopped talking about me—was a little overwhelming, but honestly so much fun.
