“Good work,” I’d told him. Just two words.
He’d looked at me like I’d handed him the world.
Tonight he’s quieter than usual. He sits with his shoulders loose, his hands open on the table. No drumming. No fidgeting. No eyes darting to whoever’s speaking to make sure he hasn’t been forgotten.
Cazzo.Two words. That’s all it took.
Renzo arrives last, sliding into his seat without fanfare. He doesn’t do entrances. Doesn’t need to. The whole room recalibrates when he sits down.
He catches my eye across the table. Holds it for a beat.
He doesn’t say a goddamn thing. Doesn’t have to.
Cassia appears from the kitchen, Nonna Rosa trailing behind her with the bread basket. She’s wearing something simple tonight. Soft blue, no jewelry except her wedding ring. Her hair is down, the way I like it.
She takes her seat at my right hand like she’s been sitting there her whole life.
The Donna’s chair. My mother’s chair. Hers now.
“Everyone’s here,” she says, her hand finding mine under the table.
I look around.
Renzo at my left, solid as always. Gia beside him, our mother’s emerald ring catching the candlelight. Nico across the table, still mid-story about something that’s making Marco laugh. Nonna Rosa settling into her seat with a satisfied sigh, surveying her family like a general who’s won the long war.
Everyone’s here. Body and mind.
I raise my glass.
The table falls quiet. Nico’s story trails off. Marco straightens in his chair. Even Nonna stops fussing with the bread basket.
“To family.”
Two words. The same toast my father made every Sunday for thirty years.
Everyone raises their glasses. Drinks.
I watch them over the rim of my wine. Renzo, the ghost of a smile crossing his face before his gaze goes somewhere far off. Somewhere none of us can follow. Then he’s back, jaw set, and the moment passes. Gia, relaxed for once. Marco, at ease. Nico, present and accounted for, which is more than I can say most weeks.
Cassia, warm at my side. Her fingers threaded through mine.
And we’re still here. Still eating Nonna’s food. Still arguing about nothing. Still laughing at Nico’s stories. Still breathing.
That’s the victory. Not power or vengeance. Just this. Dinner.
The meal unfolds the way Sunday dinners are supposed to. Nico finishes his story about the restaurant owner, and it turns out the punchline involves a case of expensive wine that ended up in the wrong hands. Gia chokes on her drink, laughing so hard she has to press her napkin to her mouth.
“That did not happen,” Marco says, but he’s grinning.
“I have witnesses.”
“You have people who are afraid to disagree with you.”
“Same thing.”
Nonna Rosa passes the bread basket to Cassia with a pointed look.
“You’re too thin,cher. Eat.”
