Page 94 of The Cost of Silence

Today my mother is coming.

To Nico’s penthouse.

To meet the Mancinis.

I might actually faint.

The smell of coffee hits me before I leave the bedroom, rich and warm and life-saving. Nico has already made me an espresso in his fancy machine, and the sound of clattering dishes suggests Matteo has arrived, storming the kitchen like a culinary dictator preparing for battle. Nico told me all the stories last night, and I got the sense that this is going to be hard for him and his brothers without their father.

I step into the living area and find Nico leaning against the island, hair damp from a shower, crisp black shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking like the cover of GQ: Mafia Edition.

He looks up and his whole expression softens. “You sleep okay?” he asks, voice warm, low.

I shrug. “As well as one can when anticipating the possible collision of two worlds that should never meet.”

His mouth twitches. “That bad?”

“Oh so bad.”

He pushes off the counter and walks toward me, sliding a hand around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Relax. She’ll like us.”

“Have you met you?” I whisper.

“Matteo’s the only wild card,” he concedes.

Right on cue, Matteo bursts out of the kitchen brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. “WHO UNPLUGGED MY STAND MIXER?”

Nico sighs. “And there he is.”

I cover my smile and retreat to shower and dress. I choose a soft jersey dress in the deepest green, and pair it with a pair of tan booties. I put my hair up, knowing I’ll be cooking, or at least helping, and spritz some perfume on my neck and cleavage. Taking one last glance in the mirror, I head out towards the melee.

By 9:45, the kitchen has become a war zone of flour, gravy, and profanity. There’s mashed potato on the counter, four pie crusts cooling on a rack, waiting to be filled, and Matteo yelling at Adriano because he tried to salt something that didn’t need salt.

Letty is by my side, carefully cutting shapes out of pie dough scraps, her little tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. She hands me each piece like it’s a precious treasure.

“This one is a star,” she announces.

“It’s perfect,” I tell her.

“This one is a moon.”

“Magic.”

“This one is a potato.”

I blink. “That’s… artistic.”

She beams.

Then she leans toward me conspiratorially. “Uncle Matteo says you’re making everything prettier.”

My heart melts into pudding. “I’m trying.”

Nico passes behind me and brushes his fingers across my back like he can’t help himself. His brothers notice, they absolutely notice, but other than knowing smirks shared between them, no one says anything.

Which I think might actually be worse.

Letty scurries off to the living room and I stay behind, rolling dough with Matteo supervising like I’m onTop Chef,and when Adriano steps up beside me to help, the strangest thing happens.