“Elena.” He doesn’t touch me. Just says my name like I’m a skittish horse. “It’s just dinner. I don’t have anything up my sleeve here.” He tips his head toward the arch. “Just eat a delicious meal and be on your way.”
I breathe in to speak, and the air seduces me—something rich and spicy that smells exactly like comfort. My stomach answers with a low, traitorous twist.
I press my lips together. “Fine,” I say sharply. “I eat and go.”
He nods his head, the ghost of a smile there and gone.
I roll my eyes and let him lead the way, not close enough to accidentally touch.
Chapter Twenty One
Luca
I lead her through the archway, past a sideboard with a bowl of lemons, into the dining room. It’s not a formal, long-table affair tonight—the end of the table closest to the garden is set for two. Linen like fresh paper, simple white plates, low flowers that don’t block a face. Out beyond the glass, the pool reflects the setting sun.
“What a shame you can’t drink wine,” I say, half a tease, half a lament. “I have a Barolo that would break your heart with this menu.”
Her chin tilts, wary. I catch myself and reel it back.
“So we do the next best thing.” I nod toward the sideboard. “A spritz without the sin.”
I pull her chair out and wait for her to settle in. She shifts to move the chair in, but I beat her to it.
I take the chair opposite her, not at the head, not imposing. Close enough to see her eyes, far enough away for her to relax.
A tall glass appears at her setting before she can argue—sparkling water over ice, a ribbon of blood orange winding through, a squeeze of fresh juice, a twist of lemon peel, and, because I love a good flourish, a tiny spray of orange blossom water across the top.
She eyes the drink like it might bite. Then she takes a cautious sip, and the tight line between her brows smooths by a degree.
“Better than chamomile?” I ask.
“Barely,” she says, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
Her fingers stay around the glass. Her nails are neat, no polish. Practical. She wears no rings. I knew that, but seeing it across the table does something to me I don’t let show.
They bring the antipasto in shallow bowls: a small ladle of chickpea and rosemary soup—zuppa, the way my grandmother did to open a meal when she wanted to impress. The chickpeas have gone creamy from the long simmer; the rosemary is there, not overtaking, just a breath. Toasted crostini lean against therim, rubbed with a garlic clove, and brushed with olive oil. A dusting of pecorino—pasteurized, because I asked—melts into the heat.
“I checked the list twice,” I say, catching her glance at the cheese. “No raw anything. Nothing aged in a cave. No mystery fish. If you need the provenance, I have it.”
“I don’t need the provenance,” she says, then sets her spoon down and slips the sarcasm back into its sheath. “Thank you.”
We eat. Or rather, she does, and I pretend I am not watching her. The first spoonful passes her lips, and she makes a sound she probably doesn’t know she makes—the same little hum I heard when I talked her through cacio e pepe over the phone.
It’s soft, involuntary, right at the back of her throat. It shoots straight through me, clean as a blade. I look down at my own bowl and put a spoonful in my mouth to have something to do.
This is how easy it could be, a foolish part of me thinks. The table set, Elena sitting across from me, a delicious meal on the table. A third place laid for a small person with her eyes or my hair.
Maybe one or two more down the line, bickering over who gets the last piece of bread. Nico, Vito, and Caterina dropping by to fill more seats.
Vito steals bites off Caterina’s plate one at a time until she notices and threatens him with a loaf of bread. A game they usedto play when they were kids. Antonio lets out a big laugh when Caterina manages to get a shot in.
Nico offers to clear the plates because he needs to reset in the quiet of the kitchen before the chaos of dessert. Giovanni offers to refresh drinks becauseheneeds to reset before the next round of chaos.
Roberto starts talking about whatever he read in the news that morning, looking to debate everyone and anyone. Elena takes him up on it, and the argument gets too loud and has everyone in the family picking a side.
Lucia sits at the far end with her girls on either side of her. Sofia is standing on her chair to join the fun and knocks over her glass. Lucia scolds her while cleaning off Charlotte’s high chair, covered in mushy bits of everything on the table.
And yes—I stifle my sigh—their father is there to round out the table. Even if it kills me.
