The prosecutor nods like he got what he wanted. Luca looks at Lucia, willing her to look back. I look at him and then at her, and I’m angry at everything—at the state, at the life, at the bad luck that put a kid in that chair.
When it’s over, she steps down and disappears through a side door. And that was it.
Eleven years behind bars for Luca. Twelve years of silence from her.
So, yeah—next week will be a lot. The house she grew up in. The siblings she left behind. The family she hasn’t seen in over a decade. And the new family she found along the way.
We keep it small. We let her lead. We feed everyone and don’t ask for anything she doesn’t offer.
I see him there in that hotel bar, ankle monitor hidden under his pant leg, Elena mediating, Lucia across from them with her chin up. I wasn’t there. I can still see it.
He glances over. “You okay if I ask you to stand in for me if I start… you know.”
“Pushing,” I say.
“Yeah.”
I nod. “I’ll watch out,” I assure him. “What are you expecting from the dinner?”
“Not forgiveness,” he says, fast. “I don’t want to put that on her. I just want to sit at a table with my brothers, my kids, and her kids. I want to pass bread and not make a speech.”
“Then that’s what we do,” I say.
He blows out a breath that ends on a light laugh. “Elena wrote rules on a Post-it. Vito already hates them.”
“Vito will live,” I say. “Nico will help. How’s Caterina taking it?”
He rubs his jaw. “She says she’s fine. She isn’t. She hasn’t seen her sister in… so many years. I know they’re years apart, but for Caterina, Lucia was her best friend, herbig sister. You know? She’s not ready to talk about it yet. I don’t know if she’s feeling happy or betrayed.”
“Both,” I say. “People carry two things at once.”
“She might try to make a scene,” he says. “Of that, I worry.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her as well,” I tell him. “If she starts cross-examining, I’ll cut it off.”
“She’ll hate you for it.”
“She’ll get over it,” I say, and he huffs a laugh.
“Yes. But she won’t make it easy.”
“She never does.”
Chapter Five
Bianca
I get to Regalia before the dinner shift starts and tell myself I’m only here to watch.
Not to cook. Not to fix. Just to see how the place works without Nonna hovering in the doorway with a spoon and a word.
I pull the metal gate up and step inside. The bell on the door does its little ring. The room smells like tomato and cleaner, and wood that’s seen a lot of elbows. The front windows fog at the bottom, just as they always do after lunch. The lights are offexcept for the bar glow and the red “EXIT” sign. I stand a second to let my eyes catch up, then head for the kitchen.
The swing door bumps my hip. Heat meets me. The big pot is on low, lid cocked. The red sauce has that lazy roll that says it’s been tended to all afternoon. Steam carries tomato, garlic, the last edge of wine burned off. Carmen’s at the prep table, slicing basil into ribbons so thin they’re almost thread. She doesn’t look up.
“You’re early,” she says.
“Just observing,” I say. I wash my hands even though I’m supposedly just watching. Habit.
