“I do not care for his name. I do not like him.”
Well, you don’t have to text him then, do you?
Weakly, I reply, “You don’t know him.”
Aunt Irina nudges her husband, tsking in disapproval at his attitude. “Who are we talking about?”
“Matteo Moretti,” Father answers, his large hand tensing around his fork as he swings it down to stab his chicken breast hard. “One of Dmitri’s wife’s many brothers. The youngest one.”
“The one who handcuffed himself to pressure her into dancing with him at the wedding,” Uncle Lev gripes, taking a long drink of his water like he’s imagining it’s vodka instead.
Aunt Irina’s jaw unhinges. “What? You didn’t tell me about this.”
“I’m still far too angry to discuss it.”
My fork falls, clinking against my plate. “He didn’t pressure me to dance with him. He asked. He’s nice.”
My aunt gives me a sympathetic look, knowing that her husband is overreacting. “And you are…texting?”
“Father said we could be friends,” I answer with a small shrug. “He sends me pictures of the twins. Or well, he’s going to. We only started talking this morning and he already sent two.”
Smiling happily, she replies, “That’s nice.”
“Manipulation tactics,” Uncle Lev mutters under his breath.
“He’s nice,” I repeat firmly, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Is he cute?”
“Irina,” my father and uncle grumble in sync.
“What?” she asks, smiling innocently. “It is a fair question. She’s not without sight, gentlemen. This Matteo, he is a young man from a good family, is he not? She can notice if he’s cute.”
My face goes warm and I look down at my plate, trying to hide the blush. “We’re just friends.”
“Mmm,” my aunt hums, tilting her head slightly to one side. “But friends can be cute, can’t they? Your uncle has many beautiful friends.”
Uncle Lev clenches his jaw. “Don’t start.”
She giggles, enjoying riling him up. “Well, come on. Do you have a photo of him, or shall I google his name and see what I find?”
I know exactly what she’d find if she googled him, because I just did a search of my own last night. Most of the results when you look up his name are from his own Instagram. But others are from gossip articles that show pictures of him at formal events with his family ambassador brother, Emilio. His tie is almost always off, and his shirt tends to be disheveled with his sleeves rolled, like it was at the wedding.
I stopped looking when I stumbled across a whole fleet of shirtless pictures of him around a pool. Pictures he posted himself in the summertime a year ago, pictures with thousands of likes and hundreds of comments.
Pictures that made my face turn bright red.
Hesitating, I grab my phone and go to my gallery. I saved both of the images he sent me this morning, and in Cesar’s, Matteo is holding him. Clicking it, I pass my phone across the table and watch Aunt Irina’s eyes light up from the screen.
Her smile spreads wide. “Anya, he isn’t just cute, he’s gorgeous!”
I try not to think about how beautiful Matteo is, so I have nothing to say in response. Uncle Lev does, though.
“He’s basically a child,” he spits.
She smirks at him, reaching over to pat his hand. “Is he a grown man trying to steal away our Anya or is he a child,lyubimiy? You cannot have it both ways.”
“He’s twenty-one,” Dad offers, looking supremely uncomfortable.
