Aegean Dreams is packed—italways is on Sundays.
The restaurant hums with conversation, silverware clinking, bouzouki music playing from hidden speakers. Blue and white décor everywhere—traditional Greek colors—but Alex’s touch is visible in the plants hanging from exposed rafters. Real ones. Trailing ivy and herbs that make everything smell like heaven.
I can see Nikko in the kitchen through the open pass. Alex’s older brother—thirty, executive chef, running the line with the precision of someone who’s been doing this since he could hold a knife. He’s expediting orders, calling out temperatures, completely in his element.
The food is already arriving. Platters of spanakopita, bowls of tzatziki, warm pita bread that steams when you tear it open. Dolmades stuffed with rice and herbs. Greek salad with chunks of feta the size of my fist.
“Sit, sit.” Dimitri pulls out my chair. “Nikko will serve you directly.”
“We can serve ourselves—” I start.
His finger comes up. Points at me like I just suggested burning the restaurant down.
“No.” That’s all. Just no.
Alex rolls her eyes beside me, but she’s smiling. “One time,” she mutters. “One time we serve ourselves and it’s been four years.”
“Five,” I correct.
“Five years and he still won’t let us live it down.”
Sofia appears with a high chair, settling it at the table. “Maya is bringing the baby.”
Maya shows up moments later with their toddler—Eleni, eighteen months old and already ruling the entire family. She’s absolutely perfect and adorable and spoiled rotten.
Maya. Nikko’s wife. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to stare—dark skin, natural hair in twists today, wearing a simple green dress that somehow looks elegant despite the spit-up stain on the shoulder.
“Sorry, sorry.” Maya’s juggling the diaper bag, the baby, and what looks like three different toys. “Someone decided naps are for the weak.”
Eleni reaches for Alex immediately. “Lala!”
“That’s right, baby girl. Your Lala is here.” Alex takes her, settling Eleni on her hip with practiced ease. “Did you have a good nap?”
Eleni babbles something that might be Greek, might be English, might be her own toddler language.
Dimitri beams. His first grandchild. The baby who will inherit this restaurant someday if Nikko has his way.
“She’s getting so big,” my mom says, reaching for Eleni’s hand. The baby grabs her finger, squeezes.
“Too big.” Sofia makes the sign of the cross again. “Growing too fast. Evil eye.” She mutters something in Greek, touches Eleni’s head three times.
Maya catches my eye across the table. Gives me a look that sayshelp mebut she’s smiling.
This is what normal looks like. Grandmothers warding off evil eyes. Babies babbling. Food appearing in endless waves. Fathers presiding over their kingdoms.
And I’m sitting here with a dead woman’s ring burning through my jeans.
Nikko emerges from the kitchen carrying two plates. Sets them in front of Alex and me with the precision of someone who plates a hundred dishes a night.
Moussaka for me—because Dimitri remembers my favorite. Pastitsio for Alex—because she’s predictable.
“Looking good, little sister.” Nikko ruffles Alex’s hair as he passes. She swats at him.
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“You’re twelve.” He grins, but his eyes flick to me. That look. The one that sayswe need to talk.
Not now. Please not now.
