Beatrice did nothing more than say hello to me with the fakest smile I’d ever seen.
If Constantine didn’t care what his sister thought of me, then I guess I shouldn’t either.
After dinner toasts, the dance floor opened up, and it was a madhouse. Everyone was excited to jump up and party, drinks still in their hands, raucous bursts of laughter somehow overcoming the loud music.
“Con!” Constantine had his arm over my chair as he looked at one of his many, many cousins, who was waving him to join in the festivities.
“Come on, sweetheart.”
“I’m not the best dancer.”
“Does it look like a competition out there?” he teased. “Come on, have fun. In a couple months, you aren’t going to want to move much, so enjoy it while you can.” He stood up first and helped me to my feet before he took my hand and guided me onto the dance floor.
He and his friends and family jumped around and seemed to be having the time of their lives. It wasn’t about the best dance moves but just joking around and having a good time. When Constantine danced with me, he grabbed my hand and spun me around before he circled me, being the most playful I’d ever seen him.
He snapped me out of my fear of embarrassment, and I just went with it.
He wasn’t the best dancer traditionally, but he had so much confidence in the way he moved, the way he looked at me, that he pulled it off so well. He made me live in the moment with him and his friends, dancing and laughing, the night passing in the blink of an eye.
Constantine drank all the time, every day, but I’d never seen him drunk—and that was a testament to how much booze he drankat the wedding. One of his cousins gave us a ride home after the wedding because Constantine was too drunk to drive, and I didn’t feel comfortable driving around all the cliffs, especially in the dark.
When we made it to the house, he unlocked the door and got us inside. Our dog sitter had already left for the night, and Medusa was asleep on the couch. It was so late, she didn’t even want to get up and greet us.
“You know what?” He started to unbutton his shirt in the living room even though he’d normally get undressed upstairs. “You’re right.” His eyes were glazed over, and he had a bit of a sway to his steps. “I want a big-ass wedding with all my family, friends, my seventy-five cousins, and, of course, you.” He turned to me, looking at me with a pure, beaming stare of love. He showed me his love in a lot of ways, but this was something new. “In a white dress with a belly. Or in a white dress with our daughter there. I can hold her when you walk down the aisle.”
“We don’t know what we’re having, Constantine.”
“I know, but I just have a feeling.” He tapped his temple with his fingertips. “A hunch.”
“We’ll see.”
“And I want her to look just like you.” His hand moved over his heart. “See you in her eyes every time I look at her. Fuck, that would make me so happy.” He dropped his shirt in the middle of the floor and headed upstairs. “I’d name her Julia, for the empress my great-great-great-great ... however many greats ... grandmother never got to be.” He continued up the stairs until his footsteps turned quiet.
I smiled to myself when he was gone, loving this vulnerable and transparent version of him. It was also a relief to know that there truly was no animosity on his part. That he wasn’t angry with my stubbornness.
I sat beside Medusa, petted her, and said good night.
Constantine called from upstairs. “Sweetheart, get your ass up here.”
On Monday, I went to work at Rosticceria Da Cristina. I’d had enough training now that I could do a lot of the prep work myself. Antonio still came in, but now, it was an hour later than usual. I prepared most of the dough for him and the rice for the arancini, acting as his assistant in a lot of ways.
It was nice having that time with him, because it allowed us to build our own friendship—exactly what I wanted. To be a part of Constantine’s family as if I’d been born and raised in Taormina like everyone else. I wanted the same with his sister Beatrice, who was there a lot of the time, but she was still ice cold. Even at the wedding, she didn’t give me the time of day—and her mother wasrightthere. She obviously didn’t give a fuck.
I was in the front kitchen alone that morning when Beatrice walked inside. Like always, she pretended I wasn’t there and headed into the back. Ever since Constantine told me not to worry about it, I’d stopped making an effort with her. Didn’t say good morning or look at her either. If I did something wrong and her wrath was appropriate, that would be a different story. But I hadn’t done a single thing wrong to earn this potent despisal, so she could fuck right off.
I continued to work, and then fifteen minutes later, someone else walked in the door.
It wasn’t Antonio or another member of the crew. Wasn’t Constantine either.
It was Isabella.
I froze at the counter, my gloved fingers covered in tomato sauce with rice and chunks of eggplant. I took in her dark features and hazelnut eyes as a rock rolled down my throat and dropped into the pit of my stomach. I’d only seen her in the flesh once before, months ago, when Constantine had taken me to a family dinner. She hadn’t looked at me. But she certainly looked at me now.
There was no question that she hated my fucking guts.
To someone other than the two of us, the standoff probably only lasted a second or two, but it felt like minutes for me.
I was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she knew I was pregnant.
