36. Eva
EVA
Sal has been cooking since six o’clock this morning.
By the time Wolfe and I walk into Rosario’s twelve hours later, the place smells so incredible, my mouth waters and my knees literally get weak.
Sal has shut down the restaurant for the night.
No customers. No Marco. Just a long table in the center of the dining room set for nine with the good plates he saves for holidays, and the cloth napkins and tablecloth our mother bought at a flea market in Sorrento twenty years ago.
“You brought out Mom’s napkins,” I say.
“It’s a big deal, E.” He’s behind the bar in a fresh white shirt, his hair actually combed. He’s nervous. Sal only combs his hair for weddings, funerals, and apparently for meeting the family of the man his sister is sleeping with.
“They’re just people, Sal,” I say with a smile.
His eyes pop open wide. “They are not just people. One of them runs the Irish mob in Boston, for Pete’s sake. This is serious stuff. Everything has to be perfect.” He rearranges a fork for the third time.
Wolfe leans against the bar. “They’re nervous, too.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Sal says with a roll of his eyes.
“Cillian called me twice to ask what kind of wine you like. Gavin asked every one of us what topics to avoid so he doesn’t make an ass of himself in the first five minutes.”
Sal’s faces relaxes the tiniest bit. He takes a breath, straightens his shirt, and nods. “Okay. We’re doing this.”
Cillian is the first one through the door. He’s got two bottles of wine in his hands, his grin already at full power. He makes a beeline for the bar and shakes Sal’s hand.
“Cillian Molloy. I run a bar here in the city, maybe you’ve heard of it? Venom.”
“Yeah, I know it. It’s a really awesome place from what I hear.” Sal grins. “I don’t get out much to have my own opinion, unfortunately.”
“I hear you, bro. The life of a business owner.” Cillian holds up the wine. “I brought a red and a white because I didn’t know what we’re eating, and I didn’t want to be the idiot who shows up with the wrong one.”
“Both work.” Sal takes the bottles and within thirty seconds they’re talking about his herb garden like two guys who’ve known each other for years. I watch from the end of the bar and think, yeah. I called that one. Bromance in the making.
Gavin shows up next and heads straight for the bread basket Sal put on the table. He shovels in two pieces before bothering to introduce himself.
“Gavin.” He shakes Sal’s hand while wiping away crumbs from his mouth with his other hand. “This bread is unreal. What is it?”
“Rosemary and oregano focaccia. I made it fresh this morning.”
“You made this.” Gavin holds up the piece like it’s evidence. “With your actual hands.”
“That’s how bread works, yeah.” Sal chuckles, but I can see the pride seeping through his pores right now.
“Bro. You’re never gonna get rid of me.”
Sal flushes, beaming like the freaking sun, completely in his element.
Lochlan walks in with Adriana next. He towers over her, dressed all in black, looking every bit like the protective husband.
With one hand on the small of her back, he uses his other to shake Sal’s hand with a grip that probably registers on the Richter scale.
“Good to meet you, Sal. We’ve heard a lot of great things about you. ”
“Hopefully not much,” Sal says. “I want to live up to the expectations, not fall flat on top of them.”
Before Adriana can say a word, Sal opens his arms and pulls her into one of his bear hugs.
She goes rigid for half a second because Adriana DiMicheli is clearly not someone who gets grabbed by strangers.
But Sal has that effect on people. He hugs with his whole body and you either go with it or get crushed.
Adriana recovers fast, pats his back. “Thank you for having us,” she says, smoothing her hair back into place.
Ronan comes in last. Alone. He does the reconnaissance thing I’ve seen a dozen times—scans the room and catalogs every person and every surface before he takes a single step forward.
Then he walks up to Sal and extends his hand.
“Ronan Molloy.”
“Sal Moreno.” They shake. Sal holds eye contact because my brother has never backed down from anyone in his life, which I think Ronan notices—and appreciates—immediately.
“I’ve heard your cooking is the best in the neighborhood,” Ronan says.
“In the city,” Sal corrects with a knowing smile. “So I hear, anyway.”
Ronan’s lips do a little upward tug. “I also want you to know that your sister has had a real impact on my brother.” He turns his head to nod at me. “He’s a different man because of her. A better one.”
“Sounds about right.” Sal winks at me, then looks back at Ronan. “She tends to have that effect.”
Ronan lets go of his hand. Something passes between them that I can’t fully explain during that abnormally long handshake, almost like understanding.
That they both know the other would burn the world for his family, albeit in very different ways.
But they recognize the same thing in one another, and they respect it.
I didn’t know how it would go with Ronan and Sal because they’re pretty much polar opposites, but they do have one big thing in common. Maybe that’s enough.
I’ll take it.
We sit down at the table. Everybody is talking and laughing and scarfing up bread dipped in Sal’s famous olive oil blend of herbs and spices.
Sal starts bringing out heaping plates of food that could feed the entire neighborhood for a week.
Antipasto platters of cured meats, cheeses, and assorted olives take up half the table.
Large bowls of his hand-rolled pasta with a Bolognese that simmers for hours to absolute perfection.
Braised short ribs that fall apart if you breathe on them.
Roasted eggplant, zucchini, and red peppers.
And of course, more fresh focaccia because he really is an amazingly gifted bread maker, and nobody on the planet has the self-restraint to say no to it.
Bottles of wine are opened, passed around, and poured, making everyone relax.
“Sal,” Gavin says through a mouthful of short rib. “I need to move in. I’m dead serious. I’ll sleep under that table. I’ll wash dishes. Whatever it takes.”
“Gavin, you’ve been here forty-five minutes, and you’ve already put away enough food to feed a family of six. I can’t afford you as a tenant.”
“That’s only because I’ve been eating out of Ronan’s fridge my whole life, and it’s mostly bean sprouts, protein bars, and smartwater.” He points his fork at the pasta. “This is what food is supposed to taste like. I’ve been lied to for twenty-two years.”
“You literally had Tony’s sandwiches yesterday,” Cillian says.
“Tony’s sandwiches are fine. This is a religious experience.” Gavin looks at Sal, his eyes pleading. “What do I have to do to get you to adopt me?”
Sal slides another piece of focaccia onto Gavin’s plate. “Tell me I’m the best cook in Boston.”
“Fuck Boston. You’re the best cook in the world.”
“I said Boston. Don’t oversell it, I’ll know you’re full of shit.” But Sal is grinning so hard he can barely keep a straight face. “Eat your bread. And use a napkin. You’re getting sauce on my good tablecloth.”
Dinner continues, getting louder and louder with each bottle of wine emptied.
Cillian and Sal spend half the meal designing a bar food menu for Venom that sounds incredible.
Gavin eats everything within arm’s reach and tries to negotiate a weekly delivery of focaccia to the Molloy house.
Lochlan and Adriana talk with Sal about the neighborhood and the restaurant and how business has been, and I notice the way Lochlan listens.
He’s focused and attentive, like Sal’s answer actually matters to him.
He does that a lot. I’ve seen how he operates in family meetings.
He doesn’t overpower, but he absorbs everything.
He’s like the strong, silent muscle of the family.
Wolfe sits next to me. His hand finds my knee under the table and doesn’t leave. I cover it with mine and lace our fingers together. He squeezes once, and it’s our entire relationship in one familiar gesture.
After the main course, Sal heads to the kitchen to start plating the desserts.
Cillian follows him because he wants to see Sal’s favorite place in the world.
Gavin trails after them because Gavin always seems to follow the food.
Wolfe, Lochlan, and Adriana are deep in discussion about security and data analysis.
Ronan turns his wine glass slowly, then looks over at me.
“Eva.”
“Ronan.”
“I owe you something,” he says, his voice quiet.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do.” He stops turning the glass. “I told Wolfe to cut you loose months ago. I made threats that I shouldn’t have made. And you found out about it in the worst way possible.”
My free hand clenches tight in my lap and I sit up straighter. I didn’t expect this. Not from him. Not here, over comfort food and empty wine bottles.
“I’m not going to apologize for protecting my family.
That’s my job, and it’ll be my job until I’m dead and buried.
” His eyes soften a little, the ice melting just enough where I don’t feel like he’s trying to freeze me out anymore.
“But I was wrong about you. I treated you like a problem to solve instead of a person my brother chose. And that’s on me. ”
I don’t know what to say to that. Can’t even process it fast enough to pull together a response. So I just nod.
“You’re part of this family now,” he says. “That means I protect you the same way I protect them. No conditions, no strings.”
“Even though I’m a risk?” I can’t help it. The words slip out before I can swallow them back.
His mouth twitches. “Everybody’s a risk. Some people are worth it. I’m going to assume you’re worth it until proven otherwise.”
“Wow, I’m flattered,” I say dryly. But I’m smiling huge while I say it, and I feel like the two of us may have just turned a corner in our otherwise tense relationship.
Cillian comes back to the table carrying a platter of tiramisu like it’s the Stanley Cup. Gavin is behind him with a second platter because apparently one isn’t enough.
I catch Ronan’s eye and nod. And he freaking smiles, catching me completely off-guard. Not a smirk, an actual, legitimate smile. I didn’t even know he had teeth.
He’s actually a good-looking guy when he’s not glowering all the time.
The rest of the night is filled with sweet treats, more wine, espresso, and lots of smiles.
Gavin tries to arm-wrestle Sal and loses, which nobody expected, including Gavin.
Cillian makes plans for Sal to come to Venom next week so he can check out the bar kitchen.
Adriana and Sal discover they have the same opinion about store-bought marinara—that it should be illegal.
Then they spend twenty minutes bonding over their shared hatred of jarred sauce.
And Wolfe is next to me, his hand on my knee.
Our shoulders touch and his face is relaxed in a way I’ve only ever seen at the cabin.
But this isn’t the cabin. This is a restaurant full of people and noise and chaos, and he’s calm in the middle of all of it.
When he looks at me and smiles, I know it’s because I’m here with him.
I look around the table at the wreckage of a meal that my brother spent all day making for a family I never expected to be part of.
If someone told me six months ago that I’d be sitting in my brother’s restaurant watching five Irish mafia brothers argue over who gets the last serving of tiramisu, I would have told them to get drug tested.
This is what I almost threw away. All of it. Because of a laptop and a dark night and the belief that nobody ever stays.
But they did stay. Every one of them. Sal stayed after I lied to his face for three months. Wolfe stayed after I drove away from his cabin at midnight. And even Ronan, in his own impossible way, decided to stay and let me in…part way, at least. Which I think is a lot for him.
I take a bite of tiramisu and it’s so good I almost cry, which would be embarrassing but also understandable because Sal’s tiramisu could literally end wars.
Wolfe’s thumb traces a circle on my knee. I lean into his shoulder and realize that I haven’t looked at the door once tonight.
Not once.
I don’t need to know where the exit is anymore. I’m not planning my escape route with my go bag packed, or counting the steps to the street, or calculating how fast I can get out if everything falls apart.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m exactly where I want to be.
And I’m staying.