What follows is a chaotic stream of orders—enough to feed an entire battalion, not just five people.
CHAPTER 25
NINA MARCHESI
I place the small flower vase at the center of the table and smile. I check one last time to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything, but the plates, cutlery, cups, and glasses are all exactly where they should be.
My mouth waters at the breads, cakes, and cookies arranged on small platters along the table, and I reach for a shortbread biscuit. I bring it to my mouth and it melts instantly. My mind immediately drifts to Nero, thinking he would love it. I make a mental note to set some aside for him.
I glance at the clock on the living room wall. Twenty minutes ago, my mother texted to say she had arrived at the ferry terminal. After ten days away, she’s finally coming home—and by my count, she should arrive any moment now.
I pull my phone from my pocket, scanning the notifications and discovering a dozen new messages in the WhatsApp groupThe Fantastic Five. Nero nearly had a meltdown when Drakocreated it, saying I didn’t deserve to go through that and that the group should be disbanded immediately.
His friend, however, didn’t give him admin powers, so he couldn’t do it. I, on the other hand, definitely didn’t want to leave—Drako and Apollo have the best stickers. Nero had no choice but to accept it.
Boyfriend.
The word still feels strange, even inside my own head, but it does make a few butterflies flutter in my stomach.
I wasn’t expecting any of this when I came back home weeks ago. I bite my lip, thinking about the email I received last week, but I shake my head, determined not to think about it now.
I refocus on my phone screen and, as expected, most of the messages in the group are stickers. I’m about to open the chat when I hear footsteps outside the house.
The excitement that fills me is silly, but the coffee table is important to my mother and me. During my teenage years, I used to prepare it for every special occasion—Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Friendship Day. They were the only gifts, besides my handmade crafts, that I could give her. Over time, it becameourthing.
Over the last four years, though, we didn’t get the chance to do it even once. The distance—and my lack of money to come home during holidays—made it impossible.
And it’s not like we haven’t sat at the table together since I returned—we have—but coffee is simply different.
The old lock rattles when the key slides in, and seconds later the door whistles as it opens.
“Welcome hoooome—” I sing-song, beaming, but the smile vanishes from my face the instant my mother locks the door and turns toward me.
The look on her face scares me.
I leave the kitchen and hurry into the hallway, ready to catch her if needed.
“What happened, Mom?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“We need to talk.”
***
I look away toward the window and run a hand through my hair.
“You’re not going to say anything?” my mother asks.
I force my gaze back to hers. Sitting on the sofa, I lace my fingers together and rest them on one knee while the leg crossed over the other bounces nervously.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. I feel like we’re having the same conversation for the third time.”
My mother didn’t even change clothes before cornering me. She’s still wearing dark jeans and a half-sleeve floral T-shirt. Her features set in stone that seems to highlight every single expression line.
She runs a hand through her short, dark hair, tucking strands behind both ears before sighing. The breakfast I prepared so carefully remains untouched on the table.
“Well, when the first thing a mother hears after coming home from ten days away is that her daughter is a slut, she has the right to be worried—and to ask repeated questions.”
Her words make me close my eyes.
