Chapter Twelve #2
She inhales, holds it, lets it out slowly. “Okay.” She nods. “You’re right.”
I flick her on the nose. “Don’t you forget it.”
She laughs in spite of herself.
“Come on,” I say, putting my arm gently on her elbow to steer her. “Let’s go get that drink. Nurse it.”
Later, I tell myself, I’ll get to the kitchen. After settling Caterina down.
The handle on the front door turns again.
Caterina stiffens the way deer in headlights do. I brace myself for whatever version of her we get in this next second and swallow the sigh that tries to climb up my throat, because tonight is not about what I want.
It’s about family.
I’m not getting to the kitchen for a while.
The sitting room is all windows and low, comfortable couches. The windows are open to the terrace, night air slipping in off the water of the pool. Lamps are low. Voices stay lower.
Antonio comes in last; he was taking care of some family business. He crosses the room with his hands out, always the showman. He kisses Elena’s cheek, claps Luca once on the shoulder, then hugs Caterina until she squeaks.
“Look at you,” he says, stepping back to take her in. “Movie star.”
“You’re a cheeseball, Uncle Tony,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.
He bumps knuckles with Nico, gets a quick squeeze from Vito that turns into a one-armed wrestle until Elena says their names in that way that ends it.
Roberto drifts in from the hall with two highballs and passes one to Antonio like he had the timing down right.
I stay where I can see the doors, the hallway, the terrace.
Vivian appears in the archway from the service hall; tablet tucked to her side. She doesn’t enter the room, just sets her feet at the threshold the way she does when the information is for the whole house.
“Gate is opening,” she says. “Lucia and family.”
The room tightens a notch. No one moves. But everything still shifts.
Luca’s jaw goes to granite. He looks at the foyer like he’s bracing himself. His hands are sitting on his knees, but I see the tendons stand up. Elena reaches over and covers his hand with hers. He leans into her slightly.
Caterina blows out a breath she thinks no one hears. Her hands are light on her wineglass, but the tendons in her neck flex. She sits, stands, sits again. Picks an invisible thread off her hem. Her eyes jump to the entry and back to the floor, then to me. I tip my head once: breathe.
Vito can’t stay in one place. He goes to the window, looks out at nothing, comes back, stands behind the couch like a bodyguard, and then shifts to the mantle to adjust a frame that doesn’t need adjusting.
Nico is the picture of calm. One ankle across a knee, hands loose. He speaks the least in family gatherings. I can’t tell if he’s settled or has just tucked it away for later. He meets my eye once. I see the same question there and the answer. Both of us are fine, neither of us is fine.
Roberto watches the door over the rim of his glass. He bounces his foot lightly.
Elena sits close to Luca, shoulder to shoulder. She rubs the back of his knuckles with her thumb like she’s trying to sand down his edges. She’s nervous too, but it’s not the same for her without the history. She’s more nervous for us than herself.
I haven’t stopped to explore how I feel about any of this. I’m feeling it anyway. Tight under the sternum. I haven’t seen Lucia since the courthouse when she testified all those years ago.
I can picture the door she walked through, the one behind the judge that isn’t for the rest of us. She turned once, not at us, just to follow some instruction none of us heard, and then she disappeared. That was it. A hinge, a click, a long hallway we weren’t allowed to enter.
Since then: photos. Grainy ones, taken at a distance for years.
Then ones she sent to Elena after the ice thawed a bit.
Her face older and softer around the eyes, a hand on a rounded belly, then a newborn in her arms. Milestones exported through a screen.
It’s not the same as a person standing five feet from you breathing the same air.
My niece is coming home. She’s bringing new family with her.
Antonio drains half his glass and sets it on the low table with too much care. He’s the most talkative one in any room, but even he’s short on words now. “Food smells good,” he says to Elena, just for something to say.
Elena smiles with one corner of her mouth. “Bianca’s got it under control,” she says. Her voice is steady. Her ankle bounces once, then stops.
I look toward the hallway to the kitchen, out of habit more than hope. I won’t see her. The rooms here were designed so that you don’t see the work. I know she’s there because the house smells like it—roasting garlic, a hint of spice.
Caterina pulls in a breath and holds it too long. I touch the back of the couch behind her with two fingers. It’s enough to get her to look up. “If you need air, take it now,” I say, quiet.
“I’m fine,” she says, which is code for I might throw up. She stands anyway, goes to the window, and leans out into the night.
Nico checks his watch and the door at the same time. He’s good at reading a room. “We should decide where we’re sitting,” he says mildly. “So we don’t herd around the foyer like confused cows.”
“No foyer,” Elena says. “Vivian is letting them in. We’ll wait here, let them settle a minute. Seating in the dining room has already been arranged.” She says it decisively, leaving no room for argument. It helps.
Luca nods once. I could tell him to breathe like I told Caterina. It won’t help, so I say nothing.
Antonio rubs his hands together once like he’s cold. “What do we say?” he says to no one.
Elena leans closer, voice low. “Start with hello, how are you,” she murmurs. “No bringing up the past unless she does. And even then, keep it casual.”
Caterina comes back from the window and drops into the corner of the couch. “Someone say something stupid so I can feel better about myself,” she says.
“Antonio’s shirt is trying too hard,” I offer.
“It always is,” Nico says, deadpan.
“It’s linen,” Antonio protests, looking down at his button-up with swirls of blue in different shades. “It breathes.”
“Loudly,” Caterina mutters.
That sends laughs throughout the room. Some of the tightness eases.
But it snaps back up when the door opens in the foyer. We can’t see what’s going on from here, but I imagine Vivian opening the door, greeting them. On cue, the voices of children, girls, fills the room.
Luca goes still in a way I’ve only seen a handful of times. Not frozen—halted.
His head turns toward the foyer, slowly. His eyes sharpen, then go unfocused for half a second. His mouth opens and closes once. No words.
He stands without meaning to. Elena’s hand slides off his and he doesn’t notice. He takes one step toward the hall and stops himself on the second. His chest lifts, holds. He swallows hard, jaw working.
Another quick burst of high, bright chatter. The small voice trills and then laughs.
Elena stands next to him, and his hand reaches for hers, squeezes tight.
The corner of his mouth pulls tight. Not quite a smile.
“Dio,” he says under his breath. It’s not a prayer. It’s awe.
He nods to himself once and straightens his shoulders.
Vivian steps into the room first, a half-step over the threshold so everyone sees her before anything else. She clears her throat lightly, not to announce—just to give us a beat. Then she turns her body to allow them to pass.
Lucia comes in behind her with a daughter in each hand, and it’s clear at a glance she isn’t that thin kid from old photos anymore.
She’s grown into herself—standing tall, sharper features that compliment her big, dark eyes. Long black curls fall down her back, the sides pinned away from her face. Her makeup is neat, and her dress was probably chosen as carefully as Caterina’s.
Sofia, five, stays welded to her hip, chin tucked. Charlotte, almost three, hesitates at the seam between tile and rug, then crosses it in two hopping steps.
Nick Dixon is a step behind them.
The man who bought Luca’s prison to make sure his remaining years were powerless. After one of our men disobeyed orders and went after Lucia, harming her in the process, who could blame him?
Well, Luca had. Less than a year ago, he walked out of prison ready to settle that score until Elena changed the plan.
Now, they’re tentatively repairing for Lucia’s sake.
Nick keeps it simple with a dark sport coat, no tie, the picture of a man prepared for anything, but hoping for civility.
His hands are empty until Charlotte folds against his leg, and he lifts her without fuss.
He clocks the exits, clocks faces, clocks me, then Luca.
No posturing. Just a man who knows the history and is willing to set it aside for his family.
No one rushes. No one moves.
Elena steps forward first. It gives the rest of us permission. She goes only two steps and stops so Luca can decide his own pace. “Hi,” she says to Lucia, voice steady and soft. “Welcome.”
Lucia’s smile is small, there and gone. “Hi.” She glances at Luca once. Then back to Elena. “Thank you for having us.”
“Of course.” Elena’s eyes drop to the girls. “Sofia.” She keeps her distance. “And Charlotte. I’m Elena. We met before.”
Sofia half-hides behind Lucia’s skirt and manages a little wave. Charlotte makes a small sound and presses her face into her dad’s neck shyly.
Luca hasn’t moved. I can feel the force he’s holding in place same as I feel the air from the windows. His hands open and close once. He steps forward, finally, like he’s measuring where the ground is. Elena’s hand brushes the back of his shirt as he passes.
Though they met over drinks once a few weeks ago to test the ground, this is still very new for them.
He stops at a distance. “Lucia.”
“Hello, Papá,” she says, and it’s quiet. The word stumbles a little on its way out, but it gets there.
He breathes, just once, audible. “You look well.”
“So do you.” She turns a fraction toward her husband. He steps forward, shifting Charlotte in his arms.
Nick takes Luca’s hand with his free one. “Thank you for having us.” His tone matches Luca’s.
Luca nods once, releases his grip. His eyes move to Sofia, then Charlotte, then back to Lucia and Nick, letting them take the lead.
Lucia shifts so the girls are between her and him, still holding Sofia’s hand. “Charlotte, Sofia. This is Luca,” she says softly. “He’s my Papá.”
Sofia peeks up at him, then down at her shoes, then up again. “Hi,” she whispers, then nearly buries herself in her mother’s leg.
“Hi, Sofia,” Luca says, voice low like he’s afraid to scare her off. “It’s good to meet you.”
Charlotte clings to Nick’s shoulder, fingers in the collar of his jacket. Lucia touches her back. “And this is Charlotte,” she adds, a tiny smile. “Lottie, can you say hi?”
Charlotte turns her face halfway, one eye peeking over Nick’s shoulder. “Hi,” she breathes, then tucks back in and pats Nick’s jaw.
Luca’s mouth moves into a small smile. “Hi, Charlotte,” he says, softer still. He doesn’t take another step. He understands the unspoken rules and has no interest in testing them.
Lucia nods, grateful for that. “We’re happy to be here,” she says. “Thank you.”