Page 73 of Ruthless Sin
Renzo says, “Cazzo,” under his breath, loud enough for the table, and Marco laughs, loud and surprised, and Cassia makes a sound that is half laugh half sob and Dante’s hand covers hers and the whole table is noise and I am standing in the middle of it with the violin in my hands and my heart slamming against my ribs and the place on the top of my head where his mouth was is still warm.
I walk back to my chair.
I sit.
The violin goes across my lap.
“Brava,” Cassia says, still crying, not trying to hide it.
Marco is already on his feet.
“Don.” Glass up, turning to Dante, grinning. “While we are all still breathing — happy birthday. You have terrible taste in everything except the people at this table.”
Laughter around the table. Dante’s mouth moves, not quite a smile.
“Cent’anni,” Renzo says. A hundred years. He lifts his glass at Dante, then at me, one gesture. Two things at once.
“Cent’anni,” the table answers.
Glasses go up. Glasses come down. Nonna appears from the doorway and puts her hand briefly on my shoulder as she passes, one firm press, and moves to the kitchen without looking back. Maria is behind her, her eyes bright, not looking at me either, which means she is looking very hard.
Giada reaches across the table and sets her hand over mine for one second. Her eyes are wet and she doesn’t wipe them and she doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t need to.
Izzy leans into Renzo’s shoulder. He doesn’t move away.
Sofia at the edge of the room has her water glass in both hands and she is watching me and her mouth is pressed together the way it goes when she is trying to hold something in. I look at her. She lifts her chin once. I nod back.
Luca is still. His glass is down. He is watching Giada’s hand on mine, and when she pulls it back he looks away.
Then Marco says gently, “Nonna. The dessert.”
And Nonna comes back through the kitchen door with the torta on a board and the room shifts again, noise and movement and Renzo making room on the table and Dante shaking his head at the candles Marco is already trying to light, and it is a birthday dinner, loud and alive, and I am in it.
Cassia stands when the torta is down.
She’s holding the wine she hasn’t drunk.
“To Mila.”
She doesn’t explain it. The glass goes up.
The table lifts their glasses. Marco. Giada, her eyes still wet, not wiped. Renzo. Izzy. Sofia at the edge of the room raises her water glass. Nonna in the doorway.
Luca is last. He lifts his glass. He doesn’t say anything. He looks at Dante. Dante nods once.
The glasses go down.
Nonna moves and the room moves with her.
Dante doesn’t move.
He looks at me across the table. His voice is low. Certain.
“Next year,” he says, “you play it from the beginning.”
Next year.
He said it like it is already decided. Like I am already here. Like a year from now I will be at this table in this house with the violin in my hands and the dress against my ribs and Nico’s arm beside mine.
