Chapter 26 Isabella
I wake up with that dizzy mix of excitement and dread fluttering in my stomach—the kind you feel right before a big exam, or meeting a celebrity, or stepping off a cliff hoping you’ll fly.
Today is Thanksgiving.
Today my mother is coming.
To Nico’s penthouse.
To meet the Mancinis.
I might actually faint.
The smell of coffee hits me before I leave the bedroom, rich and warm and life-saving.
Nico has already made me an espresso in his fancy machine, and the sound of clattering dishes suggests Matteo has arrived, storming the kitchen like a culinary dictator preparing for battle.
Nico told me all the stories last night, and I got the sense that this is going to be hard for him and his brothers without their father.
I step into the living area and find Nico leaning against the island, hair damp from a shower, crisp black shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking like the cover of GQ: Mafia Edition.
He looks up and his whole expression softens. “You sleep okay?” he asks, voice warm, low.
I shrug. “As well as one can when anticipating the possible collision of two worlds that should never meet.”
His mouth twitches. “That bad?”
“Oh so bad.”
He pushes off the counter and walks toward me, sliding a hand around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Relax. She’ll like us.”
“Have you met you?” I whisper.
“Matteo’s the only wild card,” he concedes.
Right on cue, Matteo bursts out of the kitchen brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. “WHO UNPLUGGED MY STAND MIXER?”
Nico sighs. “And there he is.”
I cover my smile and retreat to shower and dress.
I choose a soft jersey dress in the deepest green, and pair it with a pair of tan booties.
I put my hair up, knowing I’ll be cooking, or at least helping, and spritz some perfume on my neck and cleavage.
Taking one last glance in the mirror, I head out towards the melee.
By 9:45, the kitchen has become a war zone of flour, gravy, and profanity. There’s mashed potato on the counter, four pie crusts cooling on a rack, waiting to be filled, and Matteo yelling at Adriano because he tried to salt something that didn’t need salt.
Letty is by my side, carefully cutting shapes out of pie dough scraps, her little tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. She hands me each piece like it’s a precious treasure.
“This one is a star,” she announces.
“It’s perfect,” I tell her.
“This one is a moon.”
“Magic.”
“This one is a potato.”
I blink. “That’s… artistic.”
She beams.
Then she leans toward me conspiratorially. “Uncle Matteo says you’re making everything prettier.”
My heart melts into pudding. “I’m trying.”
Nico passes behind me and brushes his fingers across my back like he can’t help himself. His brothers notice, they absolutely notice, but other than knowing smirks shared between them, no one says anything.
Which I think might actually be worse.
Letty scurries off to the living room and I stay behind, rolling dough with Matteo supervising like I’m on Top Chef, and when Adriano steps up beside me to help, the strangest thing happens.
It feels normal.
Like family.
Which is ridiculous. But real.
Rossi stands guard near the door, silent but present, arms crossed like every guest arriving today must pass judgment through his aura of intimidation.
At exactly 10:00, the doorbell dings.
My heart tries to claw its way out of my ribcage.
Nico squeezes my hand once.
And then the door opens.
My mom steps in.
She looks small but strong. Nervous but composed.
Hair pinned back the way she does when she’s bracing for impact.
Her gaze sweeps the room, and she sees the brothers first, intimidating Italian men built like marble statues who could probably kill with cutlery.
At least they’re Italian, that should help a bit.
Then she sees me.
“Oh, Bella.”
I rush forward and she wraps me in a hug that smells like home, cinnamon gum and the perfume she’s worn since I was twelve. “You look good,” she murmurs. “Better.”
“I am better.”
She nods, eyes wet but controlled.
Then Nico steps forward. “Mrs. Romano,” he says, voice polite, steady. “Welcome to my home.”
My mother studies him the same way she studies newspaper obituaries, looking for truth in what isn’t said. “Nico,” she says simply. Not cold, not approving. Evaluating.
Then her gaze shifts to Matteo, who waves a flour-covered spatula.
“Hi, I’m Matteo, the baby of the family. I make the turkey and generally try and make sure dinner isn’t a total disaster. They do everything wrong. Don’t let them near the gravy.”
Next, Adriano. He gives a respectful nod. “Ma’am.”
Then Letty.
My mother’s expression softens instantly. “Well, hello there.”
Letty blinks up at my mother. “Do you want to help me make shapes out of dough?” Then she turns to Matteo to include him in her invitation.
Matteo makes a soft, strangled noise—not from incompetence, but from adoration. It’s the sound of a six-foot-three mafia-hardened menace completely melting because a three-year-old is wearing a flour-smudged apron and offering him cookie cutters.
My mom smiles warmly, her earlier tension easing. “I think perhaps your Uncle Matteo might like help rolling the dough.”
“It’s actually at just the right temperature,” Matteo says seriously, eyes narrowing at the bowl like he’s analyzing a bomb casing. “If we overwork it, the cookies will crack while baking.”
Mom blinks at him. “You know that?”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I cooked for Dad every Christmas for ten years. He was picky about texture.”
Letty beams. “We can do it together!”
Matteo lifts her onto a stool beside the counter, throwing a little dish towel over her shoulder. “Okay, chef,” he says solemnly. “You’re in charge of shapes. I’ll handle the rolling thickness. If we do it wrong, the edges burn.”
Letty gasps like they’re defusing a bomb. “We can’t let that happen!”
Matteo nods gravely. “Exactly.”
My mom looks at him like she’s reevaluating every judgment she’s ever made.
Meanwhile, Nico is chopping celery like the cutting board personally insulted him.
“Slow down,” I murmur as I pass, nudging his elbow gently. “This is cooking, not interrogation.”
He huffs. “I’m being careful.”
“You’re pulverizing the poor celery.”
“It deserved it.”
I kiss his cheek, flour and affection mixing. “You’re doing great. But slice, not slash.”
His mouth curves. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
Adriano, across the island, is whisking eggs and herbs with methodical precision. “Actually,” he murmurs, “is this texture okay?”
Matteo looks smug. “Perfect. It’s just to bind the stuffing.”
My mom eyes him with something like wary admiration. “You really know what you’re doing.”
“I told you I could handle the kitchen,” Matteo says, sliding the rolled dough closer. “Everyone assumes I’m the chaos brother, but I’m actually a perfectionist.”
“That sounds about right,” Adriano mutters.
Matteo flicks flour at him. Adriano flicks some back.
Letty squeals with delighted outrage.
“No food fighting in this kitchen.” My mother decrees in her Italian matriarch voice.
And that’s the moment they all obey her. Three terrifying men, absolutely ruled by a three-year-old culinary dictator, and a woman they just met.
Mom’s shoulders drop. She’s not tense anymore; she’s genuinely relaxed as she looks at me and winks.
I show her where the pie crusts are resting and she tests them with practiced fingers. Nico passes behind her, careful not to crowd, and she gives a small nod, not approval exactly, but respect.
Soft, fragile, hopeful.
Then I clap my hands, finding my rhythm. “Okay, troops, pies in the oven, gravy base simmering, stuffing ready to assemble, and Matteo is in charge of cookies and turkey.”
Matteo salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Letty mirrors him, more serious than military training. “Chef Letty reporting for duty!”
Mom laughs, a real laugh, free of ache.
And Nico, from across the kitchen, meets my eyes with something deep and quiet that settles all the way into my bones.
Pride. Happiness. Possibility.
And as our chaotic mafia-cooking-thanksgiving-unit moves into the next task, I realize something:
I didn’t just bring Christmas into Nico’s penthouse.
I brought family back into it.
And it fits. God, it fits so well.
Nico comes to stand next to me again, his shoulder brushing mine. “See, it’s fine,” he murmurs.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Maybe a little.”
He smirks. “Told you.”
He slides his fingers into mine, below the counter where no one can see, and it sends a warm buzz through my entire body.
Today is going to be chaotic.
It’s going to be loud.
It’s going to be messy, emotional, terrifying.
But as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice a rumble only I hear: “You belong here, Belle.”
…I start to believe it.
For the first time in my adult life, I don’t feel like I’m drifting.
I feel like I’m home.
And that scares me more than anything ever has.
But it also feels right.
So I tighten my hold on his hand and whisper back: “Happy Thanksgiving, Nico.”
His thumb strokes my knuckles once. “Happy Thanksgiving, Belle.”