"That's it."
"That's it." I spread my hands. "No one told me anything else. Not your age, not your birthday, not your favorite color or what you like to eat for breakfast or whether you prefer coffee or tea."
"Coffee." The word comes out automatically, like he didn't mean to say it.
"See?" I smile at him. "Now I know one more thing."
He doesn't smile back. But something in his posture changes. The rigid tension in his shoulders eases slightly. His grip on the armrests loosens.
"What about you?" he asks.
"What about me?"
"Your age. Your birthday." He pauses. "Coffee or tea."
"Twenty-one. September third. And coffee, but only with cream and sugar. I know that's probably sacrilege to an Italian family, but I can't drink it black."
The corner of his mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's close.
"Giulia makes excellent coffee," he says. "She'll add whatever you want."
"Good to know."
We sit in silence again, but it's different now. Less heavy. The memories of Nonna and Mama are still there, lurking at the edges of my mind, but they're quieter. Easier to ignore.
Bruno is watching the roses. His profile is sharp against the green of the hedges—strong nose, defined jaw, dark hair that curls slightly at his temples. He's handsome, I realize. Not in the soft, boyish way of the men I dated in college. Something harder. More dangerous.
"Why did you ask me to come with you?"
His question catches me off guard.
"I told you." I keep my voice steady. "I hate walking alone."
"That's not the real reason."
I look at him.
"Maybe I just wanted company," I say finally. "Is that so hard to believe?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bruno
Iknock on Antonella's door.
Pietro's message came ten minutes ago.Everyone's here.
Footsteps approach from inside. The door swings open.
Antonella stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame. She's wearing a deep pink dress that hugs her curves and falls just below her knees. Her blonde hair is down, soft waves framing her face.
"You knocked this time." Her lips curve into a smile. "I'm impressed."
I don't respond.
I can't.
My eyes move over her without permission. The way the fabric clings to her waist. The swell of her breasts beneath the neckline.
