I pocket my phone as Matteo drives through a set of iron gates I don’t recognize. “Where are we? I thought you were taking me to a restaurant.”
Matteo smiles as he meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “This is better than a restaurant. Come in and meet my ma.”
Sofia Vici’skitchen is nothing like the sterile, gleaming, and utilitarian space in my father’s mansion. This kitchen is loved. Copper pots hang from a rack above a scarred wooden island. Herbs grow in pots on the windowsill, filling the air with rosemary and thyme. Afternoon light pours through lace curtains, turning everything golden. A massive pot bubbles on the stove, releasing steam that smells like garlic and tomatoes. A large wooden table surrounded by chairs stands to one side, its wood gently marked by decades of family meals.
Sofia stands at the center of it all, wooden spoon in hand as she tastes the bubbling sauce. She’s an elegant, attractive woman with waves of thick hair and an apron tied over a brightly printed jersey dress. When she hears us come into the room, she greets Matteo with a smile.
A smile that falters when she sees me just behind her son. I was already wary about stepping into this house, and now I know I’ve made a huge mistake.
But Matteo nudges me forward before I can turn. “Ma, this is Adora Montoni. Miss Montoni, this is my ma, Sofia.”
Recovering quickly, Sofia Vici wipes her hands on her apron and comes forward to embrace me. After what happened to her family, it wouldn’t shock me if she picked up a kitchen knife and stabbed it into my heart. I stand stiffly and wide-eyed with my cheek pressed against her shoulder as she gives me a warm, motherly hug.
“It’s so good to meet you at last, Adora. Can I call you Adora? What an ordeal you’ve been through, you poor sweet girl.”
Her sympathy makes guilt lash at my insides. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I can go if you prefer. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t be silly. I love cooking for people.” She pulls back and studies me closely. “You’re pale. You’re too thin. You need a good meal or you’ll keel over.”
“Why did you think I brought her to you?” Matteo tells his mother with a grin.
She tuts and gently pushes me toward the table. “Hasn’t that nephew of mine been feeding you on your dates? Sit, sit. Matteo, get the bread.”
I think of my one date with Vincenzo and how we did more making out than eating, and I feel myself blush red to the roots of my hair.
Sofia ladles pasta onto plates and sets one in front of me with a chunk of crusty bread and a glass of red wine. The portion is enormous. Hand-cut pappardelle swimming in rich, meaty ragu.
My stomach rumbles to life as I inhale the savory scent, and I realize just how hungry I am. With all the blood and stress of the past seven weeks, I haven’t been eating well. My mouth waters as I reach for my fork.
Vincenzo.
The poison.
I can’t share a home-cooked meal with people who love the man I’ve been ordered to kill. It’s obscene.
I start to get out of my seat. “I can’t possibly—”
“You can and you will.” Sofia sits across from me, eyes stern but warm. “In this house, we take care of people. Matteo was right to bring you.”
Slowly, I sit back down again.
Matteo slides into the seat beside me and spoons Parmesan cheese all over his pasta. “Don’t argue with her. I learned that lesson young.”
“You learned nothing,” Sofia retorts. “You don’t eat with your mother nearly enough. Too many skipped meals.”
“I eat, I eat!” he protests, proving his point by shoving a forkful of pasta in his mouth and grinning at her.
They quarrel good-naturedly, and my heart aches. This is what being with family is supposed to feel like. I’ve missed this warmth, this teasing, this casual love woven through every word. It was like this at mealtimes when my father was out and it was just me, Mom, Nonna, and Cristiano.
I take a bite of the pasta. The ragu is rich and savory, the meat falling apart on my tongue. The pappardelle has that perfect al dente bite. Real Parmesan, not the sawdust from a can, melts across the top, salty and sharp. I close my eyes without meaning to, and I think I even moan.
“Good?” Sofia asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“It’s incredible,” I say honestly. “I’ve never had anything like it.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Vincenzo’s nonna’s recipe. His favorite, and Lucia’s too. I never could get it quite right, but I’ve spent years trying.” A shadow of grief crosses her face, there and gone again. “Lucia would be happy we’re enjoying it.”
The casual mention of Lucia Vici, who must be Sofia’s sister-in-law, sends a pang through me.
