With a whiskey in my hand, my other finds the curve of Fawn’s back as I steer her towards the only two men here whose influence rivals my own.
Alceu opens his arms wide. “The bride.” His eyes assess her with unreserved interest. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Fawn." He stoops to her height, pressing his lips against each of her cheeks.
I bristle.
Her smile wavers slightly, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. “It’s, um, a pleasure to meet you too,” she stammers, her voice soft.
My father, Luca, kisses her cheeks. “Fawn.”
Her smile relaxes on my father’s familiar face. “Luca.”
“Dad,” he corrects.
“Dad,” she agrees.
My father’s accent thickens. "Where are my grandsons?" The Family always brings out the old country in him— hands more animated, tone nostalgic.
Her eyes dart between the two men, one tanned and weathered from the Australian sun, with a broken nose from boxing, and the other, tanned from the Sicilian sun, with an extra two decades under his belt and few left.
I remain steady at her side; my palm pressed against the small of her back, feeling each anxious breath she takes ripple through her spine.
“Home,” I answer for her.
I am here, sweet girl.
"They're at home," she manages, voice steadying. "But tomorrow at the wedding, they're all yours, I promise."
“Very good,” Luca approves.
Alceu sips his whiskey, already loose on his feet and easy with his tongue because of a lack of rest, his age, and about three hundred dollars’ worth ofNero d’Avolasloshing in his stomach. “Do you speak any Sicilian, my girl?”
Mygirl.
I sip my whiskey.
“Se,” she answers, before I can say no.
My brows pinch together at this revelation.No, she does not speak Sicilian. The muscles in my jaw tighten beneath my skin, but Alceu's thunderous voice fills the space before I can steer the conversation elsewhere.
“Excellent!” He goes on to compliment her: “si bedda stasira.”
She blinks at him, once, twice. “Sorry. I mean.Se, as in, that is all I know…Se.”
Without a second beat, Alceu erupts with laughter, his body shaking, drawing every eye in the terrace to the old Don as he doubles over, clutching his sides.
“A sense of humour!” His eyes flick between me and Fawn. “Who would have thought my boy would enjoy a sense of humour in a woman? You're a smart girl. Have Clay teach you Sicilian. Your sons will need to learn.”
Her spine relaxes against my palm, so I don’t growl what is curling around my tongue.
“I'd like that,” she declares.
“Some people have a knack for language.” Alceu nods, then leans in, muttering, “Others don't.” He straightens and raises his voice, projecting it across the terrace. “Take Max Butcher for example. Terrible Sicilian. And he's been speaking it his entire life. All brute,se, no elegance.”
Max calls out across the crowd of guests. “Nta cocchi manera cia fazzu, vecchiu.”
A collective groan waves through therestaurant as hands fly up, fingers pinched together in that distinctly Italian gesture of disappointment.
Fawn beams. “Butcheredyour language?”
