Pietro and Nora appear first, offering Mamma his arm as she sweeps into the foyer. At sixty-four, she remains striking. She wears black, as always. Mourning our father. Mourning Riccardo. Mourning the daughter-in-law she'll never have now that Bruno sits in a wheelchair instead of standing at an altar.
"My children." Her voice carries the warmth of Sicilian summers and the steel of a woman who survived being married to Giuseppe Sartori. "Come. Let me look at you."
We gather like obedient puppies. Lorenzo gets his cheeks pinched. Pietro endures a searching look that probably catalogs every sleepless night he's had since becoming Don. Sophia receives an approving nod for the table settings.
She hugs Nico and Kristen.
Then Mamma's dark eyes land on me.
"Vittoria." She cups my face in her hands, studying me like I'm a code she can't quite crack. "You look tired,tesoro. Are you sleeping?"
"I'm fine, Mamma."
"Hmm." The sound conveys exactly how much she believes me. "We'll talk later."
Great. Can't wait.
Dinner proceeds with the careful choreography of a family that's survived too much to risk casual conversation. We discuss safe topics—Sophia's latest charity project, Lorenzo's new restaurant investment, the weather in Sicily. No one mentions Bruno's empty chair. No one mentions Riccardo.
No one mentions marriage.
Until dessert.
"Pietro." Mamma sets down her espresso cup with a delicateclink. "I've been thinking about Vittoria's future."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. Tiramisu suddenly tastes like sawdust.
"Mamma—" I start.
"You're twenty-four years old." She continues as if I haven't spoken. "In our world, that's practically a spinster."
"Aspinster?" The word comes out strangled. "It's not the eighteen hundreds."
"Our world operates by different rules. You know this." Mamma's gaze softens, but her resolve doesn't waver. "Your father, God rest his soul, would have seen you settled years ago. I've allowed you time to grieve. To find your footing. But we cannot ignore practicality forever."
Practicality. Such a clean word for what she actually means.
Alliance. Merger. Transaction.
I scan the table. Lorenzo stares at the table like it holds the secrets of the universe. Sophia suddenly finds the embroidery on her napkin fascinating. Pietro's jaw has that locked quality that means he's bracing for impact. Nico and Kristen remain silent as well.
They knew.
"You all agreed to this?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Before tonight?"
Silence.
Pietro finally meets my eyes. "Vittoria, you knew how these things work. You've always known."
A laugh escapes me.
"Did I? Did Ireallyknow?" I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping the floor. "Because for two years—two years—no one mentioned this. Not once. We were too busy burying Riccardo. Watching Bruno learn to live in a wheelchair. Trying to hold this family together while death and?—"
I catch myself.
Secrets.
The word almost slips out. Giuseppe's other family. The fact that Riccardo was fucking Lorenzo's fiance and she gave birth to his son. A kid hidden from us too. Bruno knew it. He was the only one knowing, and kept that from us too. But I can't say all these in front of her.
