Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty One
Luca
I lead her through the archway, past a sideboard with a bowl of lemons, into the dining room.
It’s not a formal, long-table affair tonight—the end of the table closest to the garden is set for two.
Linen like fresh paper, simple white plates, low flowers that don’t block a face.
Out beyond the glass, the pool reflects the setting sun.
“What a shame you can’t drink wine,” I say, half a tease, half a lament. “I have a Barolo that would break your heart with this menu.”
Her chin tilts, wary. I catch myself and reel it back.
“So we do the next best thing.” I nod toward the sideboard. “A spritz without the sin.”
I pull her chair out and wait for her to settle in. She shifts to move the chair in, but I beat her to it.
I take the chair opposite her, not at the head, not imposing. Close enough to see her eyes, far enough away for her to relax.
A tall glass appears at her setting before she can argue—sparkling water over ice, a ribbon of blood orange winding through, a squeeze of fresh juice, a twist of lemon peel, and, because I love a good flourish, a tiny spray of orange blossom water across the top.
She eyes the drink like it might bite. Then she takes a cautious sip, and the tight line between her brows smooths by a degree.
“Better than chamomile?” I ask.
“Barely,” she says, but the corner of her mouth betrays her.
Her fingers stay around the glass. Her nails are neat, no polish. Practical. She wears no rings. I knew that, but seeing it across the table does something to me I don’t let show.
They bring the antipasto in shallow bowls: a small ladle of chickpea and rosemary soup—zuppa, the way my grandmother did to open a meal when she wanted to impress.
The chickpeas have gone creamy from the long simmer; the rosemary is there, not overtaking, just a breath.
Toasted crostini lean against the rim, rubbed with a garlic clove, and brushed with olive oil.
A dusting of pecorino—pasteurized, because I asked—melts into the heat.
“I checked the list twice,” I say, catching her glance at the cheese. “No raw anything. Nothing aged in a cave. No mystery fish. If you need the provenance, I have it.”
“I don’t need the provenance,” she says, then sets her spoon down and slips the sarcasm back into its sheath. “Thank you.”
We eat. Or rather, she does, and I pretend I am not watching her. The first spoonful passes her lips, and she makes a sound she probably doesn’t know she makes—the same little hum I heard when I talked her through cacio e pepe over the phone.
It’s soft, involuntary, right at the back of her throat. It shoots straight through me, clean as a blade. I look down at my own bowl and put a spoonful in my mouth to have something to do.
This is how easy it could be, a foolish part of me thinks. The table set, Elena sitting across from me, a delicious meal on the table. A third place laid for a small person with her eyes or my hair.
Maybe one or two more down the line, bickering over who gets the last piece of bread. Nico, Vito, and Caterina dropping by to fill more seats.
Vito steals bites off Caterina’s plate one at a time until she notices and threatens him with a loaf of bread. A game they used to play when they were kids. Antonio lets out a big laugh when Caterina manages to get a shot in.
Nico offers to clear the plates because he needs to reset in the quiet of the kitchen before the chaos of dessert. Giovanni offers to refresh drinks because he needs to reset before the next round of chaos.
Roberto starts talking about whatever he read in the news that morning, looking to debate everyone and anyone. Elena takes him up on it, and the argument gets too loud and has everyone in the family picking a side.
Lucia sits at the far end with her girls on either side of her. Sofia is standing on her chair to join the fun and knocks over her glass. Lucia scolds her while cleaning off Charlotte’s high chair, covered in mushy bits of everything on the table.
And yes—I stifle my sigh—their father is there to round out the table. Even if it kills me.
It’s stupid, how clear the picture is and how much I want it, what I’ll do to make it a reality. To hear Sofia begging to swim in the pool after dinner, even though her mother already explained to her that it’s winter. Little Charlotte kicking her feet and giggling with a face covered in red sauce.
Lucia’s laugh, the one I haven’t heard in too many years, unfurling down the table, filling me with something I’ve longed to hear for so many years without admitting it.
Charlotte is two years old now, while Sofia’s four. I’ve only seen their faces in grainy pictures from a distance. A short clip sometimes, if my people were able to catch it.
For a moment, I let myself sit in the wishful memory that hasn’t actually happened, might never happen, and I hold it until it hurts.
Then I let it go and drag myself back from the image before it swallows me. Across the table, Elena is watching me as if she feels the change in my focus.
“You went somewhere,” she says, spoon poised.
“Family,” I answer. The word tastes both bitter and sweet.
She tilts her head in question and sets her spoon down gently.
I realize I’ve been staring at her like a man lost. I clear my throat and reach for my glass.
“You like the soup,” I say. It’s not a question. “Good.”
“It’s… good,” she says, and then she adds, almost grudgingly, “Perfect, actually.”
“I had hoped so,” I say. “We have more courses yet.”
Right on cue, a small plate arrives with carciofi alla romana—quarters of artichoke hearts braised with mint and parsley until they’re tender to the core, glossed with good olive oil—set beside a cool mound of Sicilian caponata, the eggplant cooked down silk-sweet with tomato, celery, and a lick of vinegar.
A triangle of warm focaccia leans on the rim, salted and brushed with oil, meant for dragging through both. Nothing raw, nothing risky—just soft, bright, briny, safe. Elena breaks off a corner of bread, scoops a little of each, and I watch the moment her shoulders loosen.
“Do you cook?” she asks suddenly. It’s an honest question, not a test.
“I did,” I say. “Before. Not much room for it, where I was.” A small smile. “Since I’ve been out? I’m remembering.”
She chases a tomato with her bread, chews, swallows. “The coffee you made at my apartment. I didn’t know my machine could do that.”
Pleasure blooms in me. “You drank it.”
“Yes,” she says. “I drank it.”
“And didn’t die.”
“Don’t gloat.” Then her tone turns prim. “It wasn’t you. It was the coffee.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say with a wink that makes her cheeks color.
She turns away and picks up her cup to avoid answering.
I hold back the grin.
I watch the way her throat moves while she drinks and remember the feel of my mouth there in the dark, the way her pulse fluttered against my tongue. Heat shoots through me.
The next course comes with very little flourish.
Merluzzo al cartoccio doesn’t look like much on first glance.
Just parchment paper folded into fat pillows and tied with butcher’s twine, edges browned where the heat has kissed them.
A wedge of lemon sits beside each; a little sprig of thyme tucked under the string like a seal.
“Cut along the seam,” I tell her, sliding a small knife onto her plate. “Careful of the steam.”
I open mine first. A ribbon of perfumed heat lifts into my face—lemon, thyme, fennel, sea.
Inside, the cod sits nestled in the middle, pearly and just beginning to flake, cradled by baby tomatoes collapsed into sweet bursts, slivers of fennel turned tender, and a scatter of Castelvetrano olives and capers to brine and bloom.
On the side are rosemary potatoes, all crisp edges and soft centers, and braised spinach with a whisper of garlic.
It smells like home, like a time before everything became so complicated.
Elena mirrors me, easing the blade through the parchment. When the seam opens, steam curls up and fogs her lashes. She closes her eyes for a heartbeat, inhales, and that quiet sound leaves her—approval and pleasure all at once.
It hits me low in the gut and makes me ache.
“It smells like…” Her laugh puffs out like a soft breath. “Mamma’s kitchen,” she says with wonder, eyes sparkling with sudden tears.
Her eyes shine, and I’m already half out of my chair before she shakes her head and waves me back.
I lean in, voice low. “Mi dispiace,” I say. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She shakes her head quickly, thumb swiping the corner of one eye. “No, no. I’m okay,” she whispers, a small, shaky laugh. “It’s good. It just… sneaks up.”
“Then let it,” I tell her. “Eat while it’s hot.” I nudge the lemon closer. “For her,” I add, and sit back, giving her the space to take a bite and a moment.
Elena picks up the lemon wedge and squeezes droplets across the cod. She lifts a corner, tests it with her fork; it flakes and falls apart.
The first bite makes her shoulders drop completely.
“It’s perfect,” she says, and there’s no reluctance this time.
“No pink?” I ask, lifting my chin to look over. “I told them if anything was pink, I’d just do it myself.”
“Control issues,” she teases with a smile.
“Where it matters, yes,” I say, then I cut myself a piece and let the layers fall open. The first bite melts on my tongue.
We eat comfortably, like we’ve done it before. There’s a silence between us that isn’t hostile. It lets me settle into the rhythm of the meal and the company.
“Will you tell me?” Elena asks softly.
I look up and meet her eyes.
“What you were thinking about before?”
It’s my turn to clear my throat and reach for the spritz. I sip and wish there was something stronger in there, something to make this easier.
She watches for a moment, then shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I…”
She turns back to her food intently, stabbing the fork a little harder than necessary.