We stared at each other for a moment. It wasn’t like I thought telepathy was real, but part of me wanted it to be real for this situation.
“Come on,” he said, giggling. “I’m ready to know what else you’ve got for me. Since you basically said you couldn’t live without me by your side.”
“I did not say that,” I said, tugging the side of the seatbelt to make sure he was securely buckled in. “But if I did, I had a reason for it.” The reason being, he’d made me feel something I hadn’t—ever. An identity, a belonging that was more than justthe family business, it was a direct calling, right from the soul. “We’ve got one stop to make before we head to the Palazzo.”
“Oh, are we gonna go somewhere for food?” He asked, and at the thought of food, his stomach rumbled. “Oops.”
“Probably,” I said, kissing his cheek and settling back in my seat before Roland drove off.
“Could we go somewhere for like all-day waffles, or pancakes?”
Adorable. I wanted to bottle it up while his guard was down. The type of adorable that doesn’t come out when you’ve got a gun in someone’s face and you’re flashing your badge at them. “Probably something else,” I said.
“Mr. Bianchi,” Roland mumbled. “You think she’ll have any gravy ready?”
“I can ask,” I said. “It’s addictive, right?”
Kalen stared now, probably making the connection.
And if he was hungry, the food would most likely be pasta with mom’s tasty gravy—the stuff she cooked all week. As a kid, I grew up thinking the stove was on all the time, cooking the same tomato pasta sauce—a.k.a. mom’s gravy—like a bottomless pot. Except I knew the difference now. She bottled it up each week and handed it out to members of the family, and the business.
“Is it safe?” he whispered to me.
“The gravy?” I teased. “It’ll be safe. You don’t have to worry.” I took his hand, tickling my fingers down the side of his wrist and arm, pushing his shirt sleeve. “You’re with me.” I wasn’t too sure if Santo had already spilled about him, but he’d be there as well.
Every weekend, usually on Sunday, Mom made dinner. Today wasn’t a big dinner day. It was a necessary meeting. Since Tomaso was drying out in the cellar beneath the house, and the family business fell on Santo’s and my shoulders, we neededour mom to help us sometimes, or at least facilitate the help we needed.
Shuffling in his seat, Kalen was mumbling all his fears aloud to me. The fear that he would be killed for his job, and what he’d planned on doing, the fear of not liking her food second to that, and I didn’t know if I could help him with it—it was just a fear, an irrational thought he didn’t need to worry about. I held his hand, squeezing it every time he shuffled around.
“She’ll love you,” I whispered into his ear as I kissed his cheek. “She has to love you.”
“Or else what will happen?” he asked with a deep groan
In that moment, I realized he needed his stuffed cat teddy to hold as comfort. It wasn’t here, so my arm would have to do, and he held it, clinging to me, pressed against his chest. I felt the heat from beneath his pits and the thump of his heart beating in his chest.
As we pulled into the drive, Santo’s car was already there, and even my heart skipped now. I had to be the one to tell Mom about my—my Kalen. She appeared in the doorway, signature apron on with her hair all nice. If there was one thing you had to give the family, we were always well presented.
“I’ll get out first,” I told him, giving him one long kiss on the lips.
Mom called me over to her when I was out of the car. She continued to stare at the car door, waiting for it to open again, this time for Kalen to get out, but he wasn’t—not yet.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” she asked, hugging me. She tiptoed as I bent so she could kiss me on the cheek.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I knowwhathe is,” she said. “But I’ll define him by what he is to you.”
“We’re dating,” Rocco said. “And this is last minute.”
She chuckled, batting the back of her hand at my arm. “I highly doubt it. Your brother said you’d bring him.”
“He did?” I tried looking past her to see if Santo was peering out the door. He was probably helping himself to some of Dad’s scotch collection—technically ours, but it was still his, and we didn’t drink to his memory with it, we drank to the future we finally felt we had without him. “Please be nice to him.”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s not every day you have a federal agent in your home.”
“He’s just an analyst.”
She laughed. “So he’s intelligent too, and not just someone running around with a gun. Even more dangerous.”
