Chapter 42
Romeo
Ionce craved the serenity and solitude that my home could bring, but those days are long gone. A quiet house used to mean comfort. Now, it just feels empty.
These days, being on my own feels less like peace and more like an absence—like something’s missing—now that I’m surrounded by people I love, and who love me back.
Sitting in the kitchen with my little boy cradled in my arms, I listen to my wife, Dante, and Dominic try to figure out what’s going on with some chick named Emily.
The Christening is long finished. The catering staff have left, but my house is still full, with the people who mean the most to me staying behind.
Nobody was supposed to stay tonight, but apparently, we’re having a giant fucking sleepover now. Arabella and Caterina have already gone to bed, as well as Giovanni and Luca.
Chloe is currently lying on the sofa with her head in Alexander’s lap while he draws lazy circles against her scalp. Nonna has Lil’ Peach cuddled into her chest as she sleeps soundly, while she chats with Angelina and Theo.
My grandfather is sound asleep in one of our many spare rooms. Maybe passed out may be a better description. My grandmother told me he’s never been much of a drinker, but he certainly made up for it today.
He was so drunk that Dominic and I had to help him up to the house. It was comical and a little distressing, especially when we got him into the room and laid him on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” he’d slurred, reaching out to grasp my wrist before I could leave. “I didn’t mean to drink so much. I was just sad … heartbroken for my boy. He would’ve loved to be here today. He would’ve loved you. He would’ve loved little Gabe.”
That wasn’t even the worst of it. As I stood there, staring down at him, he released his hold on my arm, covered his face and broke down. I’m talking racking fucking sobs that consumed his entire body. I swear it tore my heart in two.
Dominic and I were unsure of what to do. The quiet man who rarely let more than a shadow of emotion cross his face was unravelling right in front of us.
It wasn’t the kind of grief you could comfort with a pat on the back or some hollow words about time healing all wounds, either. This was raw and untouchable. Possibly the first time he ever truly let his guard down and allowed himself to feel the pain of his loss.
My grandmother was the type of woman who wore her heart on her sleeve, but not him.
I glanced at Dominic and flicked my chin towards the door. He didn’t hesitate to leave.
Moving to the end of the bed, I gently slid off his shoes and covered him with the throw blanket.
I was torn between staying and giving him some space before finally deciding on the latter.
As I strolled to the door, he called out my name. “Romeo.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing at him over my shoulder.
“I love you.”
A small smile tugged at my lips. “I love you too, Nonno.”
“You make my life worth living again, son,” were the last words he said to me. By the time I reached the doorway, he was snoring.
I was surprised to find Dominic waiting for me in the hallway when I exited.
He put his hand on my shoulder as I tried to move past him. “That was heavy.”
“Yeah,” was my only reply. We’re not chicks, so that’s about as deep as we go.
I understand my grandfather’s heartache. I’ve looked through the endless stream of photo albums at our weekly Sunday dinners at their house. I’ve heard all the stories of my father’s life growing up. They were close, so a loss like that would hit hard.
I’m a father now myself, and the thought of anything happening to my little boy is unimaginable.
I brush my lips against my son’s cheek before gently lowering him into his bassinet. I held him a little tighter and a little longer tonight. The weight of my grandfather’s breakdown was still fresh in my mind.
It’s some ungodly hour in the morning, and after Lucia fed Gabe, I took over. She had a big day today and hardly slept the night before. She needed her rest. She has a house full of people to feed when she gets up, so I burped and changed our son before putting him back to bed.
The sun isn’t even up yet, so when I’m done, I slip back under the sheets and reach for my wife.
She’s already turned towards me. Her eyes are barely open, and her face is soft with sleep.
“Is he okay?” she whispers, her voice rough and low as she snuggles into my side.
“Yeah,” I murmur, pulling her closer. “He’s perfect.”
She hums contentedly, and I feel her body relax against mine as her warmth chases away the cool morning air.
I just continue to lie here, gazing up at the ceiling that’s bathed in the soft glow of the night light beside the bassinet in the corner.
The chaos and constant noise that once filled my life now feel like a distant memory.
Instead, I’m surrounded by a quiet sense of gratitude for my wife, my son, my family, and my friends. If I had known life would turn out like this, I don’t think I would’ve spent so much of my childhood worrying about what the future held for me.
Dante, Dominic, Alexander, and I headed out early to get supplies to feed the horde of people back at the house. Bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages, and juicy steaks are on the menu … an Aussie breakfast of champions.
The women are back at the house with the kids. My Nonna was in the kitchen flipping chocolate chip pancakes for them when we left. Angelina already had two freshly made loaves of bread baking in the oven.
Nonno surfaced for all of five minutes, looking a little worse for wear. My grandmother managed to get a cup of tea into him before he shuffled back to bed. A greasy breakfast should go a long way towards soaking up the alcohol still lingering in his system.
We’re in my Range Rover. I’m driving, Dante is riding shotgun, and Alexander and Dominic are in the back seat.
“I got some intel on the waitress from La Riviera,” Dante says, glancing back at Dominic.
My eyes flicker to the rear-view mirror just in time to catch Dominic sitting up straighter in his seat. “Yeah? What’d you find out?”
He’s clearly more invested in this than just concern for her safety, and it makes me wonder what else is going on.
“You were right about the biker,” Dante says. “She’s shacking up with one of those slimy Steel Reapers motherfuckers.”
The Steel Reapers aren’t a big motorcycle gang, but their sergeant-at-arms is impulsive and unhinged enough to be dangerous.
Dominic leans forward between the seats, his voice low. “Do you know if it’s him? The one hurting her?”
Dante doesn’t answer right away. He stares out the front windshield, but I don’t miss the tic in his jaw.
“I asked one of the cops on our books to look into it,” he finally says.
“The guy she’s living with is the VP of the club, Michael Bucannon.
Goes by the name Muzzle. The bloke’s got a rap sheet as long as my arm.
Assault, weapons, intimidation, possession.
He went to juvie at the tender age of eleven for beating his stepmother with a baseball bat, so it’s not a stretch to make that assumption. ”
Dominic doesn’t reply, but the shift in his expression says enough. Something in him just snapped.
He nods once, slow and deliberate, before turning his head to stare out the side window. His mouth is set into a hard line, and his eyes are distant. Whatever he’s thinking, it’s nothing peaceful.
“I’ve got a home address for her,” Dante adds, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to him. “If you decide to take matters into your own hands, make sure you run it past me first. I don’t want you doing anything that’s going to come back on the Famiglia without my knowledge.”
Dominic leans forward, takes the slip of paper, and drops back into his seat without a word.
The air in the car shifts, and I have a sinking feeling we’re about to go to war with the local MC.
We’re all gathered around the long wooden table I built out on the back veranda, overlooking the property—getting ready to eat the breakfast the men cooked on the barbecue—when Chloe brings up that wretched dress my poor boy was forced to wear yesterday.
“Gabe’s Christening gown was absolutely adorable.” I hear Dante snicker beside me. “I believe it’s a family heirloom? So much fine detail. Did you make it yourself?” she asks my grandmother.
A sweet smile curves my Nonno’s lips, and I feel like an arsehole for hating on that fucking dress so much.
“My mother made it for Gabriel … Romeo’s father,” she says softly as her eyes briefly move to me.
“It was such an honour to see my great-grandson wearing it. She would’ve been thrilled to know that.
” When she dabs at the corner of her eye, I feel even shittier.
“She was a seamstress when she was alive. She also made my wedding dress.”
The weight of her words settle heavily over me, because I now know that stitched into every thread of that gown is a piece of a woman I never met. A legacy you can touch.
When Dante clears his throat, my eyes dart to him, thinking maybe he was affected by my grandmother’s words as much as I was. But when I see him holding the napkin over his mouth to hide his smile, I know better.
It instantly gets my back up.
“Dante and Arabella are expecting their second child, Nonna, and he mentioned he’d love to be part of the tradition,” I lie, trying hard to keep a straight face when my best friend punches my thigh under the table.
“What the fuck,” he mutters under his breath. At the same time, Nonna beams and says, “Oh, how wonderful!”
A moment later, my phone buzzes with a text message.
When I slide it out of my pocket and glance down at the screen, I have to hold back a laugh when I see it’s from Dante.
Dante: Keep running your mouth, and I’ll have your kneecaps ‘retired’ permanently. Capire.
I snort into my coffee and glance over at him. He’s buttering a slice of toast like he didn’t just threaten a mob-style maiming before breakfast.
I feel a hand rest on my leg, and when I turn my attention to my wife, who sits on the other side of me, she’s scowling at her brother-in-law. She obviously just read his text as well.
He’s completely oblivious to the death stare he’s currently getting, so Lucia snatches my phone out of my hands.
I glance down at the screen as her thumb furiously types a reply.
Me: This is Lucia, and if my husband ends up with so much as a scrape on his kneecaps, I’ll personally rearrange that pretty face of yours. Capire.
My attention swings back to him as I watch him read her reply, and when he looks past me, to her, with a cocky smirk, I hear a tiny growl bubble in the back of Lucia’s throat.
I’m half expecting her to jump up, leap on his back, and put him in a headlock, but instead, she leans towards me and whispers, “I’m going to make it my mission in life that his next born wears that damn dress.”
I throw my head back and crack up. I can’t help it. I adore her fiery side, and I don’t doubt her threat for a second.
I adore everything about this woman.
I drape my arm over her shoulder and lean in to place my lips on the side of her head. “I fucking love you, Mrs De Luca.”
She’s like a gift that keeps on giving.
The beautiful smile she gives me in return hits me straight in the chest. “I love you more, Mr De Luca.”
“Not possible, babe.”
As the laughter fades and the conversations around me blur into background noise, I find myself reflecting on how far we’ve come. How content I am, and how full my life is now.
The love that Lucia and I share has evolved into a quiet force that holds us steady in a volatile world that never is.