Couldn’t wait to fucking hear this. “Why not?”
He looked at me this time, really looked at me, like I was a simpleton. Luca Fausti to a fault.
“Lei non è italiana.”
“She’s not Italian.” I narrowed my eyes at him. Should have known. Luca’s expression even matched his words. “Your mamma is only part Italian, and if not for her, you wouldn’t be here. Remember that, ah?”
“Sì,Papà.” He became quiet for a moment or two. “Sheispretty,” he muttered to himself.
We lapsed into companionable silence once more. But occasionally, I’d feel his eyes on me, and then he’d copy something I’d done, whether it was how I held the spatula, or the way I’d run a hand through my hair.
I cleared my throat. “Tell me more about school.”
“Ah.” He opened his mouth to speak but then shut it. It took him a moment to answer. When he did, his words didn’t flood out, but the conversation held its own. We went back and forth, and even when quiet moments came between us again, it was never awkward.
He gave me a serious nod when I squeezed his shoulder and told him what a great job he’d done on breakfast. He had set the table, making sure all was where it should be, and was thoughtful of all his siblings’ likes and dislikes.
We stood in silence for a moment, staring at the table. Until he looked up at me. I smiled down at him. It took a moment, but he gave me a guarded one in return.
“Go ahead,” I said, giving him one more squeeze. “Turn up the music now.”
He did, though he was too late. Scarlett stood in her silk robe, Marciano on her hip, Mia and Mariano on each side of her, watching us.
Matteo took Scarlett’s hand and led her into the kitchen.
“Matteo!” she said, her voice awed. “You did all of this?”
“Pa—”
“He did,” I said.
Mia kissed him on the cheek, almost dancing to the table.
“King Cake pancakes!” she gasped. “My favorite!”
Marciano squirmed to get down, and once his feet touched the floor, he hopped up, already licking his lips, his hands rubbing together. I almost expectedheheheheto follow, and the twisting of mustache handles if he’d had them.
“Marciano Leone,” I said, giving him a narrow look.
He put his hands together, bringing them to his mouth, and closed his eyes, waiting patiently (sarcasm here) for us to say grace. The older children had learned early on that at Luca’s table, we did this for every meal. It was something I’d instill in him too.
“Matteo,” Scarlett said, sitting as he held her chair out for her. She touched his face, speaking to him in Slovenian. Something that made him almost shuffle his feet. Then she kissed his cheek. “You make me so proud. You all do.”
“Can I get the coffee,Papà?” Mariano asked.
“I will help you!” Matteo said, taking his brother into the kitchen to grab the carafe.
Scarlett was in the middle of situating her napkin on her lap. At this, her eyes sprung up to meet mine, and she raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. Matteo never really asked Mariano to do anything. Or offered to help him. It was usuallycome with meorlisten to me.
Once we were all settled, I led grace, Scarlett squeezing my hand to the point of blood loss when I gave thanks for my wife and for all our children. Then we all tore in, the conversation friendly, a lot of laughter floating in the thin, golden air.
My family hadn’t been this content in a long time. My wife laughed next to me as though each of our children were comedians. My children laughed, too, freely, without hesitation. I sat back, absorbing them as much as the food.
I lifted my wife’s hand, placing my mouth against her wrist, feeling her pulse against my lips, then inhaled the scent of her skin.“Grazie, mia moglie,”I whispered.
She gave me a smile, one that still had the power to steal my breath, and then replied, “my pleasure,” before she rested her head against my shoulder, the both of us watching as our children interacted.
One piece of bacon remained. Matteo eyed it.
