Chapter 32 Bree
Bree
Meeting the parents.
Meeting. The. Parents.
Three words that have historically preceded some of humanity’s greatest disasters. The Titanic. Pompeii. That time I wore white jeans to a wine tasting.
And now, apparently, Thursday dinner at the Rossi family home in Queens.
“Dom set it up,” Nico says, like that’s supposed to make me feel better. Like his brother orchestrating this whole thing isn’t somehow worse.
He told me at work, and I left early so I could stop by my Astoria apartment for a change of clothes, since I’ve only moved the business casual stuff to Nico’s place.
But now that I’m standing in front of the closet of said apartment, everything I own suddenly looks either too casual or too try-hard.
Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi. Yes, I’m the secretary who’s been sleeping with your son. No, I’m not a gold digger. Yes, I’ve seen the news coverage. Please pass the lasagna.
My phone buzzes. Nico: We’ll pick you up at 6.
I type back frantically: What should I wear?
His response is immediate: Anything. You look beautiful in everything.
Helpful. Super helpful.
I settle on a soft green wrap dress that Sora once said makes me look “like someone with her life together.” Which is hilarious, because I’ve never felt less together in my entire existence.
The SUV pulls up at exactly six. Because of course it does. Nico doesn’t do late.
When I climb in, he’s in the back seat wearing a charcoal sweater. The cashmere clings just enough to remind me what’s underneath. His jaw is freshly shaved, and his scar looks less angry than usual, if that’s possible.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“You said that over text,” I counter.
He shrugs. “It’s still true.”
I manage a smile despite the butterflies staging a full revolt in my stomach. “Your parents are going to hate me.”
He smiles patiently. “They’re going to love you.”
“Easy for you to say,” I retort. “You’re their son. Of course they have to love you.”
He reaches over and takes my hand. His thumb traces circles on my palm, which would be soothing if I weren’t actively spiraling.
The drive to Queens takes forty minutes, during which Nico opens his mouth to say something approximately seven times. Each time, he closes it again and looks out the window instead.
That’s not suspicious at all.
“You okay?” I ask after the fourth aborted attempt.
“Fine,” he replies.
“You keep looking at me like you want to tell me something,” I insist.
His jaw tightens. “Just nervous about tonight.”
Nico Rossi. Nervous. The man who faced down a boardroom coup without breaking a sweat.
I don’t push.
My mind wanders to work things.
Speaking of work, he still hasn’t officially mentioned a promotion since the board meeting. It’s been three weeks. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the board talked him out of it. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.
Maybe you should stop catastrophizing and just ask him.
But I can’t. Because I’m too worried he’s going to say it’s not happening, and then I’ll have to deal with that. And right now, I just want to focus on getting through tonight.
The Rossi family home is a modest two-story in a quaint neighborhood.
When the door opens, I recognize Isabella Rossi immediately. Warm eyes, silver-streaked dark hair, and an unlike the formal attire she wore during her office visit with her husband, today she’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the Chef in faded Italian flag colors.
She takes one look at me and pulls me into a hug so tight I actually squeak.
“Finally,” she says against my hair. “Finally he brings someone home.”
“Mama,” Nico sighs behind me.
“What?” she says to him. “I was starting to think you’d become a monk.”
I snort. Can’t help it.
Isabella pulls back and holds my face in her hands, studying me with the kind of intensity that makes me want to confess every sin I’ve ever committed. “Beautiful. And you have kind eyes. Good. He needs kindness.”
“I try,” I manage.
Antonio appears in the hallway. He’s broader than Nico, with the same dark eyes but a mustache that belongs in a 1970s cop show. He looks me up and down like he’s assessing whether I’m worth the trouble.
“So you’re the one keeping my son out of worse trouble,” he says.
“I’m attempting to, sir,” I reply.
Something that might be approval flickers across his face. “Good. He needs it.”
The living room is warm and cluttered in the best way. Family photos cover every surface. There’s Nico as a teenager, before the scars, grinning with an arm around a younger Dominic. There’s Isabella and Antonio on their wedding day. There’s what looks like every school photo ever taken.
Dom and Tatiana are already on the couch. Tatiana is exactly as intimidatingly gorgeous as her photos online. Blond, willowy, the kind of woman who makes you wonder if you should’ve skipped carbs for the past decade. Just the kind of woman you’d expect to find on a billionaire like Dom’s arm.
But when she catches my gaze, she smiles and it meets her eyes and then some. It literally lights up her whole face, and she pats the cushion beside her, accepting me immediately. “Come sit. Let the boys help with dinner.”
“We’re helping?” Dom sounds amused.
“You’re setting the table,” Isabella calls from the kitchen. “Both of you. Now.”
Nico catches my eye as he’s herded away with Dom. His expression is so vulnerable. Makes my chest ache.
Once we’re alone, Tatiana leans in. “Welcome to the chaos.”
“Is it always like this?” I ask.
“Worse on holidays.” She pauses. “Thank you, by the way.”
I frown. “For what?”
“For making Nico human again. Well.” She tilts her head. “More human, anyway.”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “I don’t think I can take credit for that.”
“Take it anyway,” she says. “The man was basically a robot for years. Now he smiles occasionally. That’s practically a miracle.”
We make more small talk, chatting like old friends. I was a bit worried she was going to bring up the whole Nico-Dom blackmail thing, but she doesn’t seem to hold a grudge at all. Which is a relief.
The dinner itself is loud. Incredibly, wonderfully, loud.
Antonio argues with Dom about real estate prices. Isabella keeps piling more food onto my plate no matter how much I protest. Dom tells a story about Nico getting lost at a museum when he was six that makes him groan and cover his face with his hands.
“He was convinced he’d found a secret room,” Isabella laughs. “The security guards found him trying to open a maintenance closet.”
“I was six,” Nico mutters.
“You were adorable,” Isabella counters.
I watch him through all of it. The way his shoulders gradually relax. The way his laugh sounds different here, looser and younger somehow. The way he looks at his mother with such obvious affection.
This is who he is underneath all the masks.
At some point, the conversation turns to the place I was dreading. The blackmail scandal.
I tense, expecting awkwardness, but Isabella addresses it head-on.
“We raised him better than that,” she says, not unkindly. “But people grow. He’s proven he’s grown.”
Antonio adds: “Can’t change the past. Only what comes next.”
Tatiana and Dom nod in agreement.
Nico’s hand finds mine under the table. Squeezes.
After dinner, while I’m helping Isabella with dessert, Antonio appears in the kitchen doorway. “Bree.”
I look up, plates in hand.
“Don’t let him fuck this up,” he says. Then, gruffer: “You’re good for him.”
Did I just get the blessing?
“I’ll try not to, sir,” I reply.
He nods once and disappears.
On the drive home, I’m warm and full and happier than I’ve been in weeks. But Nico keeps doing that thing. Opening his mouth. Closing it. Looking out the window.
“Okay.” I turn to face him. “Spill it.”
“What?”
“You’re still doing that thing. Like you want to tell me something, then keep changing your mind. It’s driving me insane.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “If you had a cat. And your cat stole food you’d spent all day cooking for someone else. Would you forgive the cat?”
I blink. “What?”
Jesus. A metaphor?
Definitely a metaphor.
And a terrible one.
Nico Rossi, billionaire CEO, master strategist, apparently cannot construct a functional analogy to save his life.
“Would you forgive it?” he presses.
“I mean. Yeah? After I properly punished the cat.” I mime swatting something. “Bad kitty. No treats for a week.” I squint at him. “Why are we talking about hypothetical cats? And more importantly, what are you actually trying to ask me?”
He looks like he’s about to explain. Then his jaw tightens and he shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“Nico,” I press.
“It’s nothing,” he claims.
It’s definitely not nothing.
But I’m too full of pasta and too content from his family’s warmth to push. Whatever it is, he’ll tell me when he’s ready. Probably with another baffling animal metaphor. Maybe next time it’ll be a hamster. Or a dolphin.
I lean my head against his shoulder and let the city lights blur past.
Things are good.
Things are actually good.
I try not to think about how that usually means disaster is around the corner.