He turns his head. Looks at me. Something soft behind the black.
“You okay?” I ask.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Yeah.”
“You’re going to be an uncle too.”
“I know.”
“You’re going to have to hold a baby.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ve held babies before.”
“Have you?”
“Gia was small once.”
“That was twenty-eight years ago.”
“I remember it.”
I squeeze his hand. “You’re going to be a great uncle.”
His fingers tighten on mine.
In the corner of my vision, Mila is watching. Not the family. Not the chaos. She’s watching the way they touch each other. The casual contact. Nico’s arm around Giada. Nonna Rosa on Cassia’s shoulder. Dante’s palm on the table near Marco’s elbow, near enough to count as connection in the language of men who don’t hug.
The tight line of Mila’s mouth loosens. The haunted look goes quiet for a moment.
Every few minutes, Nico’s attention drifts to where she sits. The charm never wavers when he’s facing the table, but his gaze tracks to her like a compass finding north. She doesn’t look back. But she doesn’t leave, either.
Sofia’s hand touches mine.
I turn, startled. She hasn’t initiated contact since the day Lorenzo carried her out of the Benedetti compound and she reached for me through the chaos and the blood. Since then, I’ve been the one reaching. Every time. Letting her decide how much touch she can handle.
But now her fingers find mine under the table, cold and thin and trembling. She’s looking at Nonna Rosa. At the way Nonna is fussing over Cassia. At the way this family folds around each other, loud and messy and unguarded about it.
“Sof?”
Low. She doesn’t answer. But she holds on. I hold back.
Nonna Rosa catches me watching. Something moves across her face, too fast to read, and then she’s on her feet again and coming toward us.
“Sofia, cher.” Nonna Rosa’s voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “You want some bread pudding? Made it fresh this mornin’. Extra bourbon sauce, just how Lucia used to make it.”
Sofia’s grip on my hand tightens. But she doesn’t pull away from Nonna. She just looks at her, eyes wide and wary and searching.
“I’m gonna put a little bowl right here,” Nonna Rosa says, setting the dessert in front of Sofia. “You eat it if you want. You don’t, that’s fine too. No pressure, dawlin’. You take all the time you need.”
Sofia stares at the bread pudding. At Nonna. At me.
Then she picks up the spoon.
My vision burns. I blink hard, looking away before she can see.
Lorenzo’s hand finds my nape. His thumb brushes along my hairline. He’s watching Sofia eat.
The noise resumes. More food. More chaos. Marco defending himself against Nico’s outlandish suggestions for crew names. Dante murmuring something to Cassia that makes her laugh and swat at his shoulder. Giada sneaking extra servings onto everyone’s plates when she thinks they’re not looking.
