The dining room is chaos and warmth, a family energy I stopped believing existed years ago. Rosa bustles between the kitchen and the table, directing traffic like a general. Cassia is setting out wine glasses, elegant in cream. Marco is already seated, leg bouncing, hungry energy contained by nothing. Nico leans against the wall, drink in hand, tracking everything with an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Dante sits at the head of the table. When we enter, his gaze flicks to me, assessing and quick. Then his mouth curves, just a fraction, and he looks toward the doorway behind me.
I know before I turn around.
Lorenzo is there. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks like he hasn’t slept.
He spots me and stops. Just stops. His whole body goes rigid. I catch every frame of it. His hand freezing on the doorframe. His mouth pressing flat. His gaze dragging down the midnight silk like he can’t help himself, tracking every curve, every inch of skin the neckline reveals.
I hold my ground. Lift my chin. His throat moves as he swallows.
“Renzo.” Rosa appears at his elbow, patting his arm. “Don’t just stand there blockin’ the door, cher. Come sit. Food’s gettin’ cold.”
He moves like a man wading through water. Slow. Deliberate. He doesn’t look away until he rounds the table and takes his seat.
Across from mine. Of course.
“Isabella, dawlin’, sit, sit.” Rosa guides me to my chair, directly in Lorenzo’s eyeline. “You look beautiful. Don’t she look beautiful, Renzo?”
Silence. His knuckles are white around his water glass.
“He’s speechless,” Nico says, sliding into his seat. “That’s a compliment coming from Lorenzo. Most words you’ll get out of him all night.”
“Leave him alone,” Gia says, but she’s smiling.
“I’m just saying.” Nico gestures with his wine glass. “The man has a vocabulary of twelve words on a good day. If he’s down to zero, that says it all.”
Marco snorts. “Remember when he didn’t talk to anyone for three days after the Valentino thing?”
“That was different,” Dante says. “He was concussed.”
“Same energy, though.”
I glance at Lorenzo. He’s staring at his plate like it owes him money. His fork stills against the plate. His shoulders are a rigid line.
Rosa starts serving. Gumbo thick with sausage and shrimp. Fresh bread, still warm from the oven. Greens that smell like butter and bacon.
“Eat, eat.” She puts an extra portion on my plate. “You’re too skinny, cher. All of you. Nobody eats enough.”
“That’s biologically impossible given the portions you serve, Nonna,” Nico says.
“Don’t sass me, boy. I changed your diapers.”
“And I’m scarred for life by the memory.”
The banter washes over me. Gia shakes her head at her brothers, fond exasperation in every line of her face. Marco is already on his second helping. Dante reaches over without looking and tucks a strand of hair behind Cassia’s ear. She leans into his hand for half a second, eyes closing, and his thumb traces her jaw before it drops back to the table. Neither of them pauses the conversation.
Like breathing. Like something they’ve done a thousand times and will do a thousand more.
Cassia catches my eye across the table and smiles. Warm. Welcoming. Like she knows exactly what I just saw and isn’t sorry about it.
And Lorenzo’s gaze is on me. Quick glances when he thinks no one notices. His attention drifting to the neckline, to my bare shoulders, to the column of my throat. Every time I move, he follows.
“That color suits you.” I turn. Nico is leaning back in his chair, bright with mischief. “Very sophisticated. Very ‘I am going to ruin someone’s entire evening.’”
“Thank you. I think.”
“It’s a compliment.” He raises his glass. “To the woman who made my brother take notice of something other than a threat.”
