Chapter 9 #2
“Don’t be silly. I love cooking for people.” She pulls back and studies me closely. “You’re pale. You’re too thin. You need a good meal or you’ll keel over.”
“Why did you think I brought her to you?” Matteo tells his mother with a grin.
She tuts and gently pushes me toward the table. “Hasn’t that nephew of mine been feeding you on your dates? Sit, sit. Matteo, get the bread.”
I think of my one date with Vincenzo and how we did more making out than eating, and I feel myself blush red to the roots of my hair.
Sofia ladles pasta onto plates and sets one in front of me with a chunk of crusty bread and a glass of red wine. The portion is enormous. Hand-cut pappardelle swimming in rich, meaty ragu.
My stomach rumbles to life as I inhale the savory scent, and I realize just how hungry I am. With all the blood and stress of the past seven weeks, I haven’t been eating well. My mouth waters as I reach for my fork.
Vincenzo.
The poison.
I can’t share a home-cooked meal with people who love the man I’ve been ordered to kill. It’s obscene.
I start to get out of my seat. “I can’t possibly—”
“You can and you will.” Sofia sits across from me, eyes stern but warm. “In this house, we take care of people. Matteo was right to bring you.”
Slowly, I sit back down again.
Matteo slides into the seat beside me and spoons Parmesan cheese all over his pasta. “Don’t argue with her. I learned that lesson young.”
“You learned nothing,” Sofia retorts. “You don’t eat with your mother nearly enough. Too many skipped meals.”
“I eat, I eat!” he protests, proving his point by shoving a forkful of pasta in his mouth and grinning at her.
They quarrel good-naturedly, and my heart aches. This is what being with family is supposed to feel like. I’ve missed this warmth, this teasing, this casual love woven through every word. It was like this at mealtimes when my father was out and it was just me, Mom, Nonna, and Cristiano.
I take a bite of the pasta. The ragu is rich and savory, the meat falling apart on my tongue. The pappardelle has that perfect al dente bite. Real Parmesan, not the sawdust from a can, melts across the top, salty and sharp. I close my eyes without meaning to, and I think I even moan.
“Good?” Sofia asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
“It’s incredible,” I say honestly. “I’ve never had anything like it.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Vincenzo’s nonna’s recipe. His favorite, and Lucia’s too. I never could get it quite right, but I’ve spent years trying.” A shadow of grief crosses her face, there and gone again. “Lucia would be happy we’re enjoying it.”
The casual mention of Lucia Vici, who must be Sofia’s sister-in-law, sends a pang through me.
“You were at school today? What do you study?” she asks.
The question catches me off guard. “Business. At Malus University.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
I open my mouth to give the automatic answer, but something in her warm eyes makes me pause.
“Not really,” I admit. “I wanted to study art history, but my father said it was impractical.”
“Art history.” Sofia’s face softens. “Dante loved art, and so did Valentina. They used to drag us into galleries when we were on vacation.”
Guilt slices me afresh at the mention of Vincenzo’s dead sister and cousin.
After Mom died, Dad forbade us from speaking her name.
Silence caused my grief to double, triple in size as there was nowhere for it to go.
I study Sofia through my lashes, bracing for accusation, because surely she’s reminding me that I’m the reason that they and the others are dead.
But Sofia has already moved on, debating with Matteo about some new barber in the neighborhood. Her voice is light. Her shoulders relaxed. There’s no venom hiding in her words.
She talks about the dead because she loved them. Because remembering is how she keeps them close.
Matteo reaches to take a piece of bread from my plate. It’s so like something my brother Cristiano would have done when we were children that I automatically gasp in outrage and swat at his hand.
I’m too late, and he snatches the bread, holding it up like a prize. “You snooze, you lose, princess.”
“Don’t call her princess,” Sofia scolds. “She has a name.”
“Fine. You snooze, you lose, Adora.”
“You have your own bread right there,” I point out.
“Stolen bread tastes better. Everyone knows that.”
I laugh, because it’s just what my brother would say. A real laugh. Both of them look at me like I’ve given them a gift.
“There she is,” Sofia says. “I knew there was a smile hiding in there somewhere.”
She reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture is so maternal that my throat tightens.
When was the last time someone touched me with such easy affection?
Mom used to do this. Brush my hair back, cup my face, drop kisses on my forehead for no reason at all. I’d forgotten what it felt like.
“You have beautiful hair,” Sofia says. “Like honey in sunlight. Does it come from your mother’s side?”
“Dad’s.” My voice comes out rough. “But everyone said I looked just like her.”
“Tell me about her.”
The question is so simple. So genuine. I realize I’m longing to talk about her. After she died—after she was killed—her photos came down. Her belongings vanished. It was like she’d never existed at all.
“She was kind,” I say quietly. “She used to sing while she cooked, when she wasn’t arguing with Nonna about her sweet wrappers scattered everywhere and teaching me bad words in Italian.” I smile at the memory. “She’d scold both of us and end up laughing instead.”
Sofia nods, her eyes warm with understanding. “You miss her.”
I swallow hard. “Every day.”
“I lost my mother ten years ago, not long after my husband passed away. The missing never stops, but we grow bigger around it, and the sharp edges wear down.” Her smile is kind as she gazes at me. “And the love stays.”
I have to look away, blinking rapidly, and the guilt almost suffocates me. She shouldn’t be the one comforting me. How can she bear to be kind to a Montoni?
Matteo, perhaps sensing I need a moment, launches into a story about a disastrous winter hunting trip. Something about a twelve-year-old Vincenzo falling into a freezing river and refusing to admit he couldn’t swim until Matteo and Dante had to haul him out like a drowned cat.
“He made me swear never to tell anyone,” Matteo says, his eyes dancing. “So naturally I’ve told everyone.”
While they tell me funny family stories, I’m able to keep eating. The laughter comes a little easier. When I finish my pasta, Sofia piles more food onto my plate despite my protests, and Matteo refills my glass.
I’ve been starving, I realize. Not for food, but for this. The Vicis, whose family my father slaughtered, are feeding me like I’m one of their own.
I’m laughing at another story, this one about Matteo trying to cook for a girl and nearly burning down the kitchen, when I realize there’s a broad, shadowed figure filling the doorway.
Watching me.
The warmth drains from my body.
Vincenzo wears his usual black, and he’s obscured by darkness. All but his eyes, which are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. How long has he been standing there?
The words burst from my lips before I can stop them, sharp and accusatory. “What are you doing here?”
The other two stop talking as Vincenzo steps into the light. His eyebrow arches. “What am I doing here? This is my house, doe.”
Heat floods my face. His house? But this is Sofia’s house. Or is that just what I assumed? I stare around the room, hunting for clues that I’ve missed.
“But I thought…” I stare in horror at the remains of my meal and my half-empty wineglass. I’m sitting in Vincenzo’s kitchen eating his food and laughing with his cousin and aunt like I have any right to be here.
I push back from the table, nearly knocking over my wine in my haste to get to my feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, Matteo noticed I was hungry, and I—”
“Sit.”
One word. Quiet but absolute.
I have no idea what he’s thinking. No idea if I’ve crossed some invisible line.
Slowly, like my chair might explode, I sit.
Vincenzo moves to the table and takes the empty chair across from me. He doesn’t reach for any food. Doesn’t pour himself wine. Just sits there, watching me with those intense blue eyes that miss nothing.
“Vincenzo, eat,” Sofia orders, setting a plate in front of him. “You’re as bad as she is. Neither of you eat enough.”
“I’m fine, Zia.”
“You’re not fine. Eat.”
He sighs but picks up a fork, and something about the exchange—the easy command, the reluctant obedience—makes me realize this is normal for them. Sofia mothers him. He lets her. There’s love in the dynamic, even when it’s wrapped in exasperation.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
Vincenzo glances up at that exact moment, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“My mother used to make this sauce,” he says slowly. “Every Sunday. The whole house would smell like it for hours.” He glances at my plate. “You like it?”
“I love it. It’s delicious.”
Is it my imagination, or does he relax slightly?
As he eats, Sofia gets up from the table and replenishes all our water glasses.
Her hand touches Vincenzo’s shoulder as she passes him, and he murmurs his thanks.
He still has love and affection in his life.
I feel a glow of happiness for him. Even a little envy.
Matteo keeps talking, filling the silence with a story about a supplier who tried to cheat them.
Sofia interjects with corrections and commentary.
The warmth of the kitchen continues to flow around me, but the air between Vincenzo and me feels charged.
Electric. A separate current running beneath the easy conversation.
Last night, he held me while I cried. Stroked my hair. Promised to protect me. His thumb traced the curve of my cheek with such gentleness.
But he didn’t kiss me.