SERENITY
TWO WEEKS LATER
I bounce down the stairs on my way to my favorite room. The kitchen. Nana made another one of my favorite pasta dishes last night. Homemade Ravioli. I can’t wait to prepare a heaping plate.
Boisterous laughter hit my ears. It’s coming from the living room.
I peek around the corner. Two figures sit on the sofa.
Their bodies are facing each other. Her forehead rest on his chest while he whispers something in her ear.
A wicked grin lifts Nana’s cheeks. I can’t see the man’s face.
She reminds me of a woman my age the way she’s carrying on. Who the hell is this man?
I clear my throat.
“Buon pomeriggio. Good afternoon,” I say in Italian.
He inches back, his blue eyes meeting mine. A devilish grin plays on his thin lips.
What the hell did he say to her?
“Serenity, this is my friend, Mr. Marino.” Nana beams.
“Friend my ass,” I mutter under my breath as I approach.
He rises to his feet and rounds the sofa. His hand stretches out for mine. I shake it.
“Hello Serenity. It’s nice to meet you.”
I grin. “Nice to meet you, too,” I say, releasing his hand.
His custom-fitted tan suit exudes luxury. He’s got swag. Is he in the Mafia?
He peers down at me. “Fia and I go way back. We’ve known each other since we were young.”
I clasp my hands behind my back. “Did you know my grandfather?”
His smile doesn’t waver. “Yes. And Fia knew my wife. She passed away five years ago.”
“My condolences,” I say.
“Thank you.”
He’s a handsome older man. It’s obvious he used to be a lady-killer. He probably had women eating out of the palm of his hand. It seems my grandmother might’ve too.
I want to ask more questions, but I won’t pry. My grandmother deserves happiness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Marino.” I make my way into the kitchen. Glancing over my shoulder, I notice he sits on the sofa and pulls Nana into his arms. They look good together.
I peek at my watch as I open the refrigerator. Time to indulge in one of my favorite shows on Netflix.
Luckily, I have TV to keep my mind occupied, and working remotely for my family’s company fills my days. It helps me push Nico out of my thoughts; he only visits me in my dreams.
I pull the glass casserole dish from the fridge and set it on the counter.
After retrieving a plate from the cabinet, I serve a generous portion and pop it into the microwave.
Sitting at the marble countertop, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through the adoption agency’s website.
I plan to call them in a few days, after my next doctor’s appointment.
The prospective parents will likely want to see ultrasound images.
I avoid bonding with the baby growing inside me—it’s easier this way.
Talking to the child would only make giving it up for adoption more difficult.