31. Chapter Thirty One #3
“So I know what to feed you.”
She looks at me suspiciously for a moment.
“He's not lying,” Victoria says. “He likes to feed people. Well, they all do. But Lorenzo in particular.”
“Now that, I’ve noticed,” Donna says.
Dinner stretches on because nobody seems in any hurry to end it. Rain continues tapping softly against the windows in time with the flow of conversation, and eventually the dinner plates are cleared away to make room for dessert.
A warm apple crostata with a flaky crust appears, along with bowls of whipped mascarpone, and small almond cookies that disappear almost as quickly as they are set down.
Donna looks at the crostata with immediate interest.
I reach for the serving knife.
She puts a hand over mine.
I pause and lift a brow. “Would you like me to serve you?”
“You were going for the piece with the most crust,” she says.
I look at the crostata.
Then at her.
She's right, but I can't let her know that.
“That is an outrageous accusation,” I say arrogantly.
“Don’t BS me,” she says. “I pay attention too. I want half.”
“Half of the crostata? People might object. You might be mauled over it.”
“Half of that piece, smartass.”
I consider her for a moment, the woman I love, and finally concede to share the best slice of apple crostata with her.
“I suppose,” I say finally and divide the piece between our plates.
Donna spoons mascarpone into both of our plates.
She takes a bite and closes her eyes. “Oh my God, I'm going to be one hundred pounds heavier before I leave here,” she says with a sigh. “I'm going to have to fast if this is a regular thing.”
Under the table, Mocha shifts against my shoe. I look down and find him awake now, his head raised as he surveys the room.
Across from me, Alessio notices at the same moment. His eyes immediately brighten.
“I waited. I demonstrated extraordinary restraint.”
“I’m very proud of you,” Donna says to my twenty-four-year-old toddler.
“So he gets chicken?” he asks hopefully.
“Fine,” she concedes.
Donna points after him as he pushes his chair back. “No skin, no bones. I mean it,” she calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen.
A few minutes later Alessio returns with a small plate. Donna gets up, and I watch them as they lead Mocha away from the table, and she shows Alessio the right way to feed him by hand.
She's holding out her hand, palm up, and he’s mimicking her movements with the chicken in his hand. He gives the release command, and Mocha takes the chicken neatly.
Alessio looks absurdly pleased.
After that, Donna shows Alessio a few of Mocha’s commands, and within minutes Mocha is sitting, lying down, giving a paw, and turning in a circle while Alessio rewards him with tiny pieces of chicken.
“He likes me,” Alessio announces.
“He likes the chicken,” Edoardo calls.
I watch my son and the simple pleasure on his face. Not just him, either. Everyone around the table watches as the tricks Donna shows get more and more complicated.
I remember the four of us as boys, begging for a dog as well. My father, however, never bothered with the excuses. He was always a tough one, Francis Conti. When he said no, it was a hard no.
How could I have forgotten that?
The regret from earlier returns. I should have gotten them the dog.
It would have made them happy.
There were so many things after Gemma died that I concentrated on getting right that I sometimes forgot children did not need everything to be managed perfectly. Sometimes they simply wanted a dog.
The chicken feeding goes on longer than expected, as it isn’t just Alessio who wants a turn. Mocha preens in the applause as he performs another trick, and even though everyone is comfortably full, the energy rises again.
Which means it has even farther to fall once Mocha is happily full of chicken and tired out from tricks.
This leaves everyone a bit lethargic as we trudge back into the family room. Except Mario, who keeps glancing nervously at his son as Mocha has apparently decided to take up a post right next to the babies, who are now laid out on a thick blanket on the floor.
Donna sits beside me at one end of the sofa and leans into my side. I put my arm around her shoulders.
She settles against me without thought, as naturally as if we have been doing this for years, and once again that simple acceptance catches me off guard.
Across the room, Edoardo notices.
His gaze meets mine briefly, and he gives me the smallest smile before looking away.
My chest tightens.
My sons have never asked me for anything related to my personal life. They watched me raise them alone and watched me build a life around being their father.
They're not ignorant. They know I haven't been celibate all these years.
But knowing and witnessing are two very different things.
However, they are the ones who encouraged me to go to Donna’s that first night.
That has to mean something.
Eventually, the babies fall asleep and are moved upstairs. Conversation fades, and the mood sobers.
Because while the socializing part of the evening is over, we’re not nearly done.