The figure stands, and I scream again.
“Black Jesus of Nazareth!”
I’m not thinking when I grab my empty plate and send it through the air.
“Minchia!”
Benny grabs the side of his face. He’s shirtless, sweat glistening on the deep cuts of his muscles over his tatted chest, rising through hard breaths. He glares at my eyes lowering to his legs and that package in black shorts.
“Nonna would like to meet you,” he says, next to the woman half his height.
Nonna?
“Yourgrandmother?”
Benny’s mouth curves. “Put some clothes on, Trouble.”
Chapter 29
Breakfast With Nonna
Salvatore
Do something, Bianca mouths.
“She won’t bite or throw plates.”
Her kick under the table is too quick to dodge. I grit my teeth at the small heel digging into my shin.
It took a bribe to get her into the kitchen. The imported snacks and extra money in her account for “emotional damage” are a small price to pay to watch her squirm.
“Why didn’t you tell me you live with your grandmother?”
“Because she lives with me and travels back and forth between my cousin and me,” I admit. “I planned to introduce you once she got back from Mass, but you beat me to it.”
Bianca groans. “Tell her I’m sorry she saw my coochie. I flashed the poor woman and almost assaulted her. I’m mortified!”
I grin. “I enjoyed the show.”
The table jerks at Bianca’s attempt to lean over and smack me.
Few people keep me entertained, but watching Trouble sweat is a new pastime. The same woman who’d knocked out my menand destroyed my Lamborghini is terrified of my seventy-eight-year-old grandmother.
Lionara Parisi barely reaches the wooden shelf from which she pulls a bowl from above the stove, but scared Trouble enough to use my dishware as a weapon. Had I not sprinted toward her screams during my morning run, Nonna might not be here with us.
“Is she still looking at me?” Nonna asks in Sicilian, looking away from the early lunch she’s preparing.
My smirk is lopsided. “Hasn’t stopped.”
Bianca’s eyes dart between her almost victim and me. Nonna swapped the outfit she wore to Mass this morning for a sleeveless floral dress and matching headscarf.
“Is she mad?” Bianca whispers in English. She hazards a glance at Nonna hand rolling pasta and bites her nail.
I sip my coffee. “Furious.”
Nonna grabs a mixing bowl. “Stop lying to that girl, peri peri,” she snaps in Sicilian. “Did you finally bring home a wife?”
My caffè freddo goes down the wrong tube. Bianca’s frown deepens.
