“Impossible,” Raf mutters. “They’re basically Valentinos and Rossis with feathers. None of you know how to walk around like you don’t own every inch of space.”
A raucous chuckle fills the space, andDio, it feels good to be together again.
We eat standing up and sitting down and leaning on each other. Rory tells Livia about a park with a carousel of animals that look like they escaped a fairy tale. Serena promises her a flower crown at the wedding and an emergency stockpile of glitter glue for emergencies only. Even Alessia installs a childlock on a cabinet that Livia has already opened twice. Ale texted housekeeping before we arrived and a bed for Livia had appeared in the spare room that looked like it belonged in a storybook.
I have seen my cousins build companies and crush enemies. But watching them make space for my daughter undoes me in a completely different way.
When the sugar rush crests, the entire apartment quiets then softens. Livia finds the window seat and presses her forehead to the glass like she is trying to memorize the river. Cat sits behind her and braids copper into a rope like Noreen taught her. She tucks the end with a ribbon that must have traveled in a jam jar. I lean against the wall and let myself have the view.
Serena pops up with her phone. “All right, before everyone falls into a food coma, let’s talk schedules. Rehearsal Thursday, then dinner after. The ceremony will be on Saturday, of course. Attire is black tie and joy. And Livia,piccolina, you have a very special job.”
Livia perks up. “What job?”
“Petal captain,” Serena announces. “You will supervise the flower petal distribution team, which consists of you and no one else.”
Livia glows like a light pulled on, clapping her hands. “I’ll do it.”
Antonio leans over, pretending to whisper in her ear. “The real job is eating the wedding cake.”
“Signore,” Livia replies, very serious, “I’m on it.”
Laughter folds over the room like a warm blanket.
Eventually the cousins peel off in twos, leaving promises and half-finished plans in their wake. The door closes on the last wave, and the apartment exhales. Or maybe that’s just me. City lights dot the river, and a siren murmurs somewhere far away and then becomes just another thread in the fabric of home.
I scoop Livia up from the window seat. She yawns and goes boneless against my shoulder. “Story?” she mumbles.
“Two.”
“Too many, I’m tired,” she corrects around another yawn, but her smile says she is not mad about it.
I carry her down the hall to the former guest room that smells like new linen, lemon oil and hope. Then I tuck Livia into her princess carriage bed and read about a goat who gets lost and a kid who teaches pigeons to say please. She falls asleep with her hand in mine.
I just sit there for a long moment, taking her in. The gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her light copper lashes. The trail of freckles across her cheeks.Dio, she’s perfect in every way.
Cat appears in the doorway. I can feel her before I turn around. When I finally do, the look steals my breath again, the same one from the living room, older now by an hour and a hundred miles of quiet.
“I meant it,” I whisper. “About marrying me.”
“I know.” She crosses the space between us and folds down beside me. Her fingers find mine, half a knot in the dark. “I meant it too. About saying yes eventually.”
My laugh is a whisper. “I am nothing but patient.”
“You are getting better at it.”
We sit there long enough to memorize the shape of peace in this room. When we finally step away, she hooks her pinky with mine and leads me back toward the living room where the cousins left flowers on the counter and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice we forgot to open.
I pop it without ceremony and pour two glasses. “To first nights.”
“To many firsts.” Then we drink to the city, to the girl sleeping in the next room, to the wedding in a week, and to the small future that suddenly looks huge.
From the window, the river glints like a promise. For the first time since I was nineteen, I believe it can all be ours.
EPILOGUE
Matteo
St. Patrick’s Cathedral glows like a crowned jewel, all marble and music. Spring hangs new and bright over Fifth Avenue, and for once in our city the only sirens belong to the choir. Serena’s veil floats like a cloud as Antonio takes her hands, and the priest’s words braid with the murmured prayers of a hundred relatives who have negotiated with God and the devil in much darker rooms.
