I can't help but snort a laugh.Spice Queen.I've never heard a better nickname. Mara's cooking attempt still has me tasting the pepper, but I'm sure Paul means it in some sweet way.
Ben stations himself at the kitchen counter, his knife darting through the onions with practiced speed—a son atoning for making his mother cry and making sure she never does again.
Carmela sweeps past, squeezes his shoulder once with silent acknowledgment before disappearing into the pantry.
I cross toward him, voice playful. "Nicknames are clearly a family thing. How come you never call me anything cute?"
His frown is instant, like I've insulted logic itself. "I call you Emma. What's cuter than you?"
I blink, defenseless, smitten. "Damn you. You're too smooth."
He licks his lips slowly, smiling.
I catch the sound of the boiling water and take a step toward the pantry. "Carmela. Your pasta must be ready."
She storms out, carrying a plate of olives. Stops cold and listens with eyes squinting. "How you know?"
"The water," I explain, my throat tight suddenly. "It boils... differently. Sounds done."
Her lips purse, but she flicks the gas off."Bene."
Approval tucked beneath skepticism, like she'll never fully admit I scored a point.
Well, at least that's one thing I have against her—I can hold my own in the kitchen. I guess that's good for start.
"I love your house. It has so much character," I say, and it's not just a filler—I mean it.
It's a Brooklyn four-floor townhouse that refuses to be bought out, with those charming wrought-iron balconies and Cyclamen in colorful pots.
The inside is full of family portraits, Italian Renaissance lamps and columns, and the kitchen has those geometrical hand-painted tiles that make you feel you're in some luxurious café, which makes sense, since the espresso machine in the corner could definitely run one.
Developers waved millions, Ben once told me, but the Bellinis never sold it.
It's not just walls, but a home with decades of history, and floors stamped with their first baby steps. No money can buy that.
Carmela hands me a plate with pastrami to put on the tablein the dining room, and when I get there, my mouth drops.
The table is huge, dressed like a feast in a Caravaggio painting.
Fire crackles in the hearth to the Italian songs playing in the background, but the real hearth is Carmela herself—handing plates, commanding the room like a general who isn't afraid to hold her children's hands, no matter how old they are.
I almost snort at the contrast with my own mother, her affection locked in glass cabinets, and the first meeting with Richard's parents in their ski chalet. It was polite silence, expensive tea and conversation I barely remember. This? This is unforgettable.
Carmela flicks her hands. "Sit. Sit," she says, and we obey. I sit between Ben and Mara.
My eyes catch a photo on the wall: buzzcut Ben with teethy grin and a trophy raised high.
"What did he win?" I ask.
Carmela glances at it and her face melts into soft pride. "Ah. State math competition. Was nine years old."
"Nine? He looks thirteen," I echo, stunned, studying it. Then I lean close to him. "You clearly weren't bullied then."
He shakes his head. "No. I had a reputation."
I pull a face. "You mean your reputation in the locker rooms?"
He snorts and shakes his head. "Not that. No one dared to mess with me."
