At the end of the courtyard, Nonna pauses at the wrought-iron double doors and turns to Angelo.
“Lift.” She gestures at me.
“Right,” he utters. “It’s tradition.”
I barely have time to comprehend the meaning of that before he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the threshold, much to Nonna’s delight.
“It brings good luck,” she says.
Rather than setting me on my feet, Angelo pauses inside the foyer, taking it all in. With the exception of a few minor updates, little has changed over the years he’s been away. The entryway of the Vitale home is the picture of elegance, with vaulted ceilings and a marble butterfly staircase. The wrought-iron railingsextend all the way up to the balcony of the second level. And on the ground floor, Romanesque arches and Classical columns lead into the central areas of the home.
Lost in his thoughts, Angelo carries me beneath the archway, past the library, and into the grand salon before he finally pauses and glances down at me.
As tension creases his brows, I can’t help but wonder if he just realized he’s still carting me around in his arms. Or perhaps he felt far too comfortable doing it.
He sets me upon my feet, and I smooth out my dress. All eyes are on us, and I’m grateful when Nonna Vitale breaks the stilted silence by ushering us out to the backyard. Much like the rest of the house, this space is the epitome of Mediterranean luxury. A series of arched colonnades wraps around the al fresco dining area, offering a perfect view of the resort-style pool, expansive green lawns, and manicured hedges.
In the dining area, Nonna Vitale has the long table dressed with a feast fit for a king. The spread includes all her classics—antipasti, stuffed zucchini flowers, fresh-baked focaccia, three kinds of pasta, and of course, pizzelles and cannoli.
Even though we had a sizeable brunch on the jet and I didn’t think I was that hungry, my stomach rumbles at the sight. I never miss an opportunity to eat Nonna’s cooking, and when she tells you to eat, you eat.
“Sit.” Nonna pulls out the chair at the head of the table for Angelo, and he lingers for a moment, his eyes falling over the space with an unreadable expression.
That was his father’s chair. Now, it will be his.
A heavy silence descends over the family as an ache unfurls in my gut. A quick glance around me confirms the swell of grief rippling through the siblings as they acknowledge the significance of the moment Angelo takes his place.
Nonna squeezes his shoulders and grabs his plate, dishing up a little bit of everything for him as the rest of us sit down. I take my place at Angelo’s right side, with Mariella beside me, while the rest of the Vitale men fill the remaining seats. Nonna dishes up heaping plates for all the men while Mariella and I exchange a smile and serve ourselves before she gets a chance. If we don’t, she’ll give us each four pounds of lasagna and then ask us why we don’t like her food when we can’t finish.
Rafe and Cristian pass around the carafes of wine, and everyone pours a glass except for me, which seems to delight Nonna.
She takes her seat on the other side of Angelo and glances between us, making a sprinkling gesture. “Did you tend the garden?”
“Dio mio, Nonna.” Mariella sighs. “You can’t just go around asking that.”
“Why not?” Nonna shrugs.
A flush creeps down my neck as Angelo’s gaze burns a hot path over my face.
“Don’t worry, Nonna,” he tells her. “We tended the garden many times.”
I bury my face in my palms and die of embarrassment as a few of Angelo’s brothers chuckle.
“So I guess that was never the issue.” Romeo stabs an olive with his fork and shoves it into his mouth.
“Filter, Romeo.” Rafe elbows him.
He glances up, irritation shadowing his face. The thing about Romeo is, he’s not trying to be rude. Since the accident, social interactions have become difficult for him to navigate, which is why he often avoids them. He’s blunt, and he struggles to pick up on social cues or nuance in conversations. He doesn’t like eye contact, and often laughs when he shouldn’t, or speaksthe truths most people would keep to themselves. So I take no offense to his remark, and I try to let him know with a soft smile.
“What happened between Abella and me is private,” Angelo cuts in smoothly. “All you need to know is that we’re committed to fulfilling the obligations of the treaty.”
His brothers nod as the weight of those words settles over the table. Everything rides on this. The rest of the Vitale family, my sisters’ lives, my friends, my cousins, the entire SeattleCosa Nostraas we know it. If we fail to maintain the treaty, the Greek Mafia will declare open season on all of us. The war would be bloody and endless.
“Che Dio vi benedica.” Nonna holds up her glass of wine, and everyone else follows suit.
I ignore my stomach twisting into knots and force a smile as the rest of the Vitale siblings echo the sentiment.
May God bless us.
