"No." I guided the car onto a side street, slowing as we approached our destination. "And I’d like to keep it that way."
"So what am I supposed to tell them when they ask how we met? How we fell in love? Why we eloped without telling anyone?"
Pulling into a spot half a block from the restaurant, I killed the engine. "Just be yourself. They'll love you."
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized they were true. My grandparents would adore her—her sharp wit, her fierce independence, the genuine warmth she couldn't quite hide beneath her tough exterior. They would see in her what I tried desperately to ignore: a woman worth more than the arrangement I'd forced her into.
"That's not an answer," she pointed out as I came around to open her door.
I offered my hand, helping her out of the low-slung car. She took it without hesitation, her fingers warm against mine. I didn't let go immediately, holding her there for a moment longer than necessary.
"Tell them we met through mutual friends. That we kept it quiet because of my parents' expectations. That we got married quickly because when you know, you know." The half-truthstasted less bitter than expected. "They're romantics. They'll believe it."
She looked skeptical but nodded, smoothing down her dress with her free hand. I realized I was still holding the other and reluctantly released it.
As we approached the restaurant, her steps slowed.Trattoria De Lucawasn't what most people expected when they thought of a famous restaurateur's family business. No valet stand, no red carpet, just a simple storefront with warm golden light spilling from the windows and the rich scent of garlic and tomato sauce perfuming the air.
A line of people waited outside, but I guided Cecelia past them to the entrance. Before we reached it, the door swung open, and my grandmother appeared—tiny, silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a bun, flour dusting her apron, her face lighting up like the fucking sun when she saw us.
"Rafael." She threw her arms wide, and I bent to embrace her, breathing in the familiar scent of bread and basil that had always meant safety. "Finally, you bring your wife to meet us."
"Nonna," I murmured against her hair, the knot in my chest loosening as it always did in her presence. "Sorry it took so long."
Pulling back, she patted my cheek in that way she had since I was a boy. "Too busy for your old Nonna, eh?" Her attention shifted to Cecelia. "And this must be the beautiful bride. Come, come, let me look at you."
Cecelia stepped forward, a genuine smile spreading across her face as my grandmother took both her hands in her flour-dusted ones.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. De Luca."
"Helena, please. Or Nonna." My grandmother winked. "Soon enough we'll have little ones, and they'll need to call me something other than Mrs. De Luca."
I choked on air, and Cecelia's cheeks flushed pink. Before either of us could respond to that bombshell, my grandfather's booming voice cut through the moment.
"Ah. The prodigal grandson returns." My grandfather appeared behind my grandmother, still barrel-chested and strong despite his seventy-plus years. "And he brings a wife without telling us first. What, we are not good enough to invite to a wedding?"
He spoke in rapid Italian, a mix of greeting and scolding that I'd heard a thousand times before. I stepped forward to embrace him.
"Mi dispiace, Nonno," I replied in our mother tongue. "It happened quickly."
"Too quickly for family?" He raised bushy white eyebrows, then turned to Cecelia with a critical eye. "So this is the woman who stole our Rafael from us, eh? Let me look at you."
I opened my mouth to translate, but Cecelia surprised the hell out of me by responding in flawless Italian.
"Il piacere è tutto mio, Signor De Luca. Mi scuso per aver portato via suo nipote senza un'adeguata celebrazione. Spero che mi perdonerà." The pleasure is all mine, Mr. De Luca. I apologize for taking your grandson away without proper celebration. I hope you'll forgive me.
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Cecelia spoke Italian. Not just tourist phrases, but fluid, natural Italian with barely a hint of an accent.
Nonno's face transformed in an instant, delight replacing mock severity as he clasped Cecelia's face between his hands. "Ah. She speaks our language. Rafael, you didn't tell us she was so perfect."
Cecelia laughed, the sound warm and genuine in a way I rarely heard from her. "Hardly perfect, Signor De Luca. Just lucky enough to have spent some time studying languages."
"Enzo, please," he insisted, taking her arm and leading her inside. "Come, come, we have the best table waiting. You must tell me everything about how you met our stubborn grandson."
I followed them in a daze, my mind still trying to process this new facet of Cecelia. What else didn't I know about the woman I'd married?
The restaurant was packed, the noise level rising and falling in waves of conversation and laughter. White tablecloths, mismatched chairs, walls covered in family photos and paintings of Naples—nothing like the sterile minimalism of my penthouse or the cold opulence of my parents' mansion. This place felt like what it was: a home that happened to serve food to strangers.
My grandmother led us to a corner table partly secluded by a curved wall, already set with their best dishes and a bottle of wine breathing in the center. As Cecelia settled into her chair, her eyes met mine across the table, big and bright and so fucking beautiful.
