Page 95 of The Cost of Silence

It feels normal.

Like family.

Which is ridiculous. But real.

Rossi stands guard near the door, silent but present, arms crossed like every guest arriving today must pass judgment through his aura of intimidation.

At exactly 10:00, the doorbell dings.

My heart tries to claw its way out of my ribcage.

Nico squeezes my hand once.

And then the door opens.

My mom steps in.

She looks small but strong. Nervous but composed. Hair pinned back the way she does when she’s bracing for impact. Her gaze sweeps the room, and she sees the brothers first, intimidating Italian men built like marble statues who could probably kill with cutlery. At least they’re Italian, that should help a bit.

Then she sees me.

“Oh, Bella.”

I rush forward and she wraps me in a hug that smells like home, cinnamon gum and the perfume she’s worn since I was twelve. “You look good,” she murmurs. “Better.”

“I am better.”

She nods, eyes wet but controlled.

Then Nico steps forward. “Mrs. Romano,” he says, voice polite, steady. “Welcome to my home.”

My mother studies him the same way she studies newspaper obituaries, looking for truth in what isn’t said. “Nico,” she says simply. Not cold, not approving. Evaluating.

Then her gaze shifts to Matteo, who waves a flour-covered spatula.

“Hi, I’m Matteo, the baby of the family. I make the turkey and generally try and make sure dinner isn’t a total disaster. They do everything wrong. Don’t let them near the gravy.”

Next, Adriano. He gives a respectful nod. “Ma’am.”

Then Letty.

My mother’s expression softens instantly. “Well, hello there.”

Letty blinks up at my mother. “Do you want to help me make shapes out of dough?” Then she turns to Matteo to include him in her invitation.

Matteo makes a soft, strangled noise—not from incompetence, but fromadoration.It’s the sound of a six-foot-three mafia-hardened menace completely melting because a three-year-old is wearing a flour-smudged apron and offering him cookie cutters.

My mom smiles warmly, her earlier tension easing. “I think perhaps your Uncle Matteo might like help rolling the dough.”

“It’s actually at just the right temperature,” Matteo says seriously, eyes narrowing at the bowl like he’s analyzing a bomb casing. “If we overwork it, the cookies will crack while baking.”

Mom blinks at him. “You know that?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I cooked for Dad every Christmas for ten years. He was picky about texture.”

Letty beams. “We can do it together!”

Matteo lifts her onto a stool beside the counter, throwing a little dish towel over her shoulder. “Okay, chef,” he says solemnly. “You’re in charge of shapes. I’ll handle the rolling thickness. If we do it wrong, the edges burn.”