He takes a slow breath.
“She had breast cancer,” he continues. “It went away. It came back.”
My fork stills in my hand.
He doesn’t look at me when he says the next part.
“She died.”
My stomach twists with a different kind of nausea. Not food. Not adrenaline. Just… that sudden awareness that everyone has a reason for the way they are.
I swallow, forcing my face to stay neutral even as my mind stumbles over the fact that Nico is talking about his mother at my kitchen table like it’s a normal thing to do.
I can’t think of anything less normal.
He takes another bite, chews, swallows, like he’s keeping it contained on purpose.
“My father was in prison at the time,” he says.
I blink.
I don’t ask for details. I’m not stupid. And he’s not offering.
I’m sure if I really wanted to know, I could find an article.
He shifts his fork against the plate, the quiet scrape too loud in the gap between sentences.
“My sister Lucia was older,” he says. “But she was… gone by then.”
Gone.
Not dead. Just gone.
Again, I don’t ask because he isn’t offering.
I nod once like I understand, even though I don’t.
Nico’s eyes flick up to mine, then away again, like he regrets giving me even that much.
But he keeps going.
“Giovanni. Antonio. Roberto,” he says. His uncles. “They stepped in. They did what they had to do.”
He lifts his glass, takes a sip, sets it down.
“They each lived in the house at some point or other,” he says. “Drove me crazy sometimes. There was always someone in every damn room I went in. Couldn’t get a minute of quiet for days at a time… But it was family, you know?”
My throat tightens around nothing.
Because no. I don’t.
For the first time, Nico doesn’t notice.
“I moved into the pool house as soon as Giovanni okayed it. He stayed until Caterina went away to school. Then everyone else scattered. Not far, though. Elena drags us back to the house nearly every Sunday since they got married. And Bianca always jokes that her love language is food. If it wasn’t obvious.” Hegestures to the plates in front of us. “So we always have too much.”
It’s ridiculous to feel anything about it, and I do anyway.
A hot little thread of jealousy I don’t want to admit to, even to myself.
