Chapter 32
The warning comes while I'm still fussing with his collar because there's no way I'm letting him face his mother with a wrinkle in it.
He kisses my frozen nose. "I'm telling you again—we're loud, we fight for sport, and we love harder for it. Don't lie to her. She sees everything. Even the tremor in your toe right now."
Nausea climbs my throat instantly but somehow I laugh. "Idiot, that's not helping."
He grins and squeezes my hands. "She says whatever's on her mind. No filter. Don't take it personally."
"Please," I shoot back. "I've survived you."
"She's worse. And now you're family."
"Family..." I echo, feeling the word play with my gut a little more.
"I'll try to tame her," he adds, softer, like she's a wild lion and not, well... his mom.
The door rattles under the knock, and so does my chest.
"Wait!" I hiss. "You were supposed to wait until I told you!"
"She loved you at the wedding. Relax."
"No. She loved Emma, who didn't upend her family's values."
My eyes drop at the two doves on the Christian wreath, screaming judgment at the accidental heathen slut.
I yank my skirt lower over the crystal fishnets—yes, actual glittering fishnets. They're a punishment for losing a bet. I thought I could beat Ben by taking the subway to the library, but he caught me at the corner with that maddening smirk and coffees in hand.
"Can't believe you made me come here dressed like a hooker," I grumble.
"You're wearing your prude skirt over it," he says softly. "Something for Mom, something for me, underneath."
I roll my eyes.
I should be thinking about what I tell his mother.
Instead, my mind keeps slipping back to those two incredible, breathless weeks in New York.
To us sharing dripping slices of Sicilian pizza from the 79th as we sat in Central Park, then night walks around our neighborhood in our matching hoodie set.
Yup. We're officially one of those couples.
I'm Red Velvet For Her and For Him.
It started as a joke in a printing shop, but we walked out of it wearing them. I guess it was inevitable.
Of course, bliss never stays untaxed. I got a lawyer on day two, papers filed, but Richard won't answer a single call about our divorce.
My mother staged her own opera after finding out. Storms of rage through messages and never-ending calls until Ben and I had a serious talk and I decided to block her number. At least until I come back and figure out my stuff.
Lu still reminds me I bailed on her exhibition. Another debt I'll have to pay later.
Now that we're allowed to have our feelings in public, we're in that giddy stage of falling in love where no one else exists.
Multiply that by a million, add a dash of madness, throw in the occasional screaming match over where the bed should be, and there you go.
We fight, yes, but I don't want that part to change—fighting with him is still intimacy, meaning neither of us is walking away.
A few nights ago, Ben barged through the door like he'd just won the lottery. Before I could ask, he spun me until I was shrieking with laughter and borderline concussion.
The prize: his mother had invited us for Thanksgiving. Not him. Us. A we. A seat at her table. And I know in his world, that's more precious than gold.
So here we are and now I brace for real life to slap me.
Carmela's voice booms behind the door: "Mara, guarda la pasta!"
From deeper inside: "Mamma, I'm mopping! Whoever thought white tile was a good idea should rot in hell—"
"HEY! That was your father's idea! And no cursing in this house!"
The door swings open and the vibe is immediate: smell of roasted meat, red wine, there's Carmela in a lemon apron, hands on her hips.
Mara's waving with a mop even though she looks like she stepped out of a catwalk.
Dino is somewhere already yelling about tiramisu tasting like dirt.
The chicory coffee—Mara's fault. Everyone's yelling over everyone else.
"How long you stand here?" Carmela aims straight at Ben. "I saw you sneaking when it was still daylight!"
"Hi, Mamma." He kisses her temple with incredible tenderness. "I was preparing Emma for the battle."
She glares. "You brat. I sweat like a mule cooking, and this is how you greet me?"
Her fury is staged, you can tell, but I'm still scared.
She steers me inside the white marble foyer and takes my coat off, then interrogates me about religion because I dared mention the wreath.
"Are you Christian?" She raises a brow, skeptical already.
"Eh no, not exactly religious," I admit, since I'm not supposed to lie. "I believe in order, maybe fate. Mostly the cosmos. Stars fascinate me."
"Ah. Same thing," Carmela declares swiftly, a slight disappointment in her voice. "Different name for God. You believe in horoscopes?"
I cringe. "Hate to admit it, but yes. Secretly, not so secretly."
"It's okay. Nonna believed that crap, too. Read my horoscope every week. Never once came true." She waves her hand. "Come. Come. Amaretti are fresh."
"First, we wash our hands," Ben interrupts, dragging me to the guest bathroom like a delinquent child. The faucet's already running.
I pout. "Why? I only touched your hand."
His smile turns wicked. "That hand's been very dirty these last two weeks."
I slap my hand over his mouth before his mother hears.
His eyes widen, and I can tell he's going through his whole mental germ list that just touched his lips.
"You're a menace." His lips glisten because he actually soaped them. Then he gives me a sharp look. "Wash your hands. Now."
"Wash your hands. Now," I echo in a pompous baritone, making a face in the mirror. "I'm Dr. Bellini. I have a stethoscope and a God complex."
He fixes me with deadly stare. "I'll enjoy the check-up on you later. Make sure it stings. A lot." He leaves me with those words and strides out.
When I step into the kitchen, it's lively.
Dino shouts, "Benito! Scopa! Antonio's cheating again." They clap each other on the back, all testosterone.
Then Dino sees me, and his hands fly open like he's been waiting for this moment. "Bomba d'amore!"
I bite my lip. "That sounds explosive. Not sure I should be proud of that."
"Be proud! Your heart's Italian." Dino laughs and hugs me warmly. "My Lucia once climbed a balcony in Venice just to slap me for flirting with her cousin. One week later—married." He snaps his finger.
Carmela's eye-roll could register on the Richter scale.
"Dio mio, everything with him is drama. Don't listen. She married him because he stalked her bakery like a stray dog. Like a—" She gives a spinning hand gesture. "A creep!"
I bite my cheek so I don't laugh but Carmela is funny.
Antonio emerges next, sweater red as Dino's, like they're a matching set. He crushes me in a hug. "You play Scopa?"
"Eeeh. No. Sorry."
"Come, I teach you, so you can lose to me properly."
"Papà, let Emma breathe." Mara floats in, her pink dress swishing, bow outrageous, smelling of sugared violets.
She pulls me in, kisses both cheeks, glowing as always. "Bomba d'amore, ciao babe."
I hadn't seen her since her wedding. She and Paul vanished into their honeymoon and only came back three days ago, so I sent her a dozen apology texts for my little fiasco.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. "Before you say a word—we loved it. Even Paul's parents keep talking about your kiss. It's a highlight of their life. More than our wedding, probably."
Paul's right behind her with cards fanned against his chest, both of them smiling. "Yeah. I told my Spice Queen how come she never claimed me like that."
I can't help but snort a laugh. Spice Queen. I've never heard a better nickname. Mara's cooking attempt still has me tasting the pepper, but I'm sure Paul means it in some sweet way.
Ben stations himself at the kitchen counter, his knife darting through the onions with practiced speed—a son atoning for making his mother cry and making sure she never does again.
Carmela sweeps past, squeezes his shoulder once with silent acknowledgment before disappearing into the pantry.
I cross toward him, voice playful. "Nicknames are clearly a family thing. How come you never call me anything cute?"
His frown is instant, like I've insulted logic itself. "I call you Emma. What's cuter than you?"
I blink, defenseless, smitten. "Damn you. You're too smooth."
He licks his lips slowly, smiling.
I catch the sound of the boiling water and take a step toward the pantry. "Carmela. Your pasta must be ready."
She storms out, carrying a plate of olives. Stops cold and listens with eyes squinting. "How you know?"
"The water," I explain, my throat tight suddenly. "It boils... differently. Sounds done."
Her lips purse, but she flicks the gas off. "Bene."
Approval tucked beneath skepticism, like she'll never fully admit I scored a point.
Well, at least that's one thing I have against her—I can hold my own in the kitchen. I guess that's good for start.
"I love your house. It has so much character," I say, and it's not just a filler—I mean it.
It's a Brooklyn four-floor townhouse that refuses to be bought out, with those charming wrought-iron balconies and Cyclamen in colorful pots.
The inside is full of family portraits, Italian Renaissance lamps and columns, and the kitchen has those geometrical hand-painted tiles that make you feel you're in some luxurious café, which makes sense, since the espresso machine in the corner could definitely run one.
Developers waved millions, Ben once told me, but the Bellinis never sold it.
It's not just walls, but a home with decades of history, and floors stamped with their first baby steps. No money can buy that.
Carmela hands me a plate with pastrami to put on the table in the dining room, and when I get there, my mouth drops.
The table is huge, dressed like a feast in a Caravaggio painting.