"You didn't tell me your wife speaks Italian," Nonno accused, clapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. "What other secrets are you keeping?"
More than he could possibly imagine. "I didn't know she spoke Italian," I admitted, still watching Cecelia.
With a challenge in her gaze, she raised an eyebrow. "You never asked."
"What other languages do you speak, cara mia?" Nonna asked, already pouring wine into glasses without waiting for permission.
"French, a little German, and enough Afrikaans to get myself into trouble but not out of it." Cecelia accepted the wine with a grateful smile. "I went through a language-learning phase in college. It was easier than admitting I was failing at dance."
The casual revelation stunned me. In all our conversations—limited and hostile as most had been—she'd never oncementioned this side of herself. The complexity of her continued to surprise me, like layers unfolding each time I thought I had her figured out.
"Intelligent and beautiful," my grandfather declared as he raised his glass in toast. "Our Rafael has done well. Though why he had to marry in secret, this I still do not understand."
"My parents," I said simply, and both grandparents nodded in immediate understanding.
"Ah." Shaking her head, Nonna crossed herself.
I nodded solemnly. "It was better to make things official in secret, that way they wouldn’t have time to interfere."
"Smart boy," Nonno declared, then leaned toward Cecelia with a conspiratorial wink. "Though not always so smart. Did he tell you about the time he decided to 'improve' my sauce recipe?"
And just like that, the floodgates opened. My grandparents took turns telling increasingly embarrassing stories about my childhood, each one making Cecelia laugh harder than the last. The sound of her genuine amusement was nothing at all like the careful, controlled responses I usually received from her.
The sound was intoxicating.
Plates arrived—antipasti followed by my grandmother's famous carbonara, then veal scallopini that melted on the tongue. Cecelia ate with obvious appreciation, complimenting each dish with such sincerity that Nonna beamed with pride. Wine flowed freely, loosening tongues and easing the tension that had existed between us since the moment we met.
Throughout dinner, my gaze returned to her again and again—the way she gestured when she spoke, the tilt of her head when she listened, the curve of her lips when she smiled. Each moment revealed a new facet of the woman I'd blackmailed into becoming my wife, and each revelation made the weight of that fact heavier inside my chest.
"Rafael, help me bring dessert," Nonna announced suddenly, giving me a look that brooked no argument. I recognized the tactic—she wanted to speak privately. I followed her to the kitchen, ducking under hanging copper pots and weaving through bustling line cooks.
In the relative quiet of the prep area, she turned to me with a serious expression. "You love this girl."
It wasn't a question, and the presumption blindsided me. "Nonna—"
"Don't 'Nonna' me with that tone." She wagged a finger at me. "I know what I see."
Heat crawled up my neck. "It's complicated."
"Love always is." She sighed as she plated the cannoli. "Your grandfather and I, we left everything behind—family, friends, the only home we knew. For a dream, yes, but mostly for love. Because love is the only thing that matters in the end."
Leaning against the counter, I watched her work. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple. We just make it hard." She set down the pastry bag and took my face in her hands, the way she had when I was small and hurting. "Listen to me, Rafael. Whatever is between you two, don't let pride or fear ruin it. Love is the one thing you can't get back once it's lost. Remember that."
Unable to trust my voice, I swallowed hard and nodded.
"Good." She patted my cheek. "Now carry these out."
I gathered the dessert plates and followed her back to the table where Cecelia and my grandfather were deep in conversation. Her eyes lit up when she saw the cannoli, and something twisted in my chest at the simple pleasure on her face.
My grandmother's words echoed in my head as we finished the meal, said our goodbyes with promises to return soon, and walked back to the car in comfortable silence.
Love is the one thing you can't get back once it's lost.
The problem was, I'd never had Cecelia's love to begin with, only her reluctant compliance bought with threats and manipulation. And despite the evening's warmth, I couldn't shake the fear that I'd lost something precious before I'd ever truly possessed it.
Chapter 13
