Page 195 of Ruthless Sin
Marco in a clean shirt for the second time today. He stops in the doorway, clocks the eggplant on the sideboard without naming it, crosses to his chair and sits.
“You’re late,” Renzo says, dry.
“I was early. I had to leave to be on time.”
The table laughs. A sound I did not hear in this room for two years and now I hear it every Sunday. My jaw goes loose at it. Every damn Sunday. I did not know how much I missed it until it came back.
Giada in a dress. The dove-gray sweater Mama was still knitting her the year Mama died. She wears it under a v-neck so the sweater shows, like she’s decided tonight is the night she puts it on in front of everyone.
She sits across from me and does not say anything. The twin thing. She looks at me and nods. I nod back.
She knows. I know. The sweater is at the table. That is enough.
Sofia in the doorway. Isabella holding her elbow.
The room goes quiet.
She walks slowly. Slowly but forward. She is in a soft blue dress. Her hair is brushed. The notebook she has been carryingsince she arrived is not in her hands tonight. She crosses to her chair — the chair Maria has been setting for her every Sunday for weeks without being asked, without Sofia ever sitting in it — and she sits.
There she is.
I had been holding my breath. I didn’t know it until she sits.
“Welcome, piccola,” Renzo says, soft enough that only Sofia hears it.
He has been calling her that for weeks without asking. Sofia has never once told him to stop.
“Hello, Renzo,” Sofia says. Quiet, but steady.
Marco sets his glass down. “All right. Pass the bread.”
The table moves. This is what this family does. I have never been more grateful for it.
I stand when Mila comes in.
I’m the only one who has stood. Dante started to and stopped when he saw me already on my feet.
She is in a soft dress the color of the inside of a peach. Hair down. The two lockets at her throat.
She has the bow of the violin in her left hand — she has been in the music room before dinner again, alone, playing something I couldn’t hear from the hallway.
She crosses to her chair and sets the bow on the windowsill behind her, and she sits.
I sit beside her.
My hand finds her thigh under the table. Light. She goes still for one breath and then she lets me. The warmth of her through the fabric pulls at my jaw and I keep my face even.
She let me.
The first course. Nonna brings it herself. Maria carries the plates. Each one set with ceremony. Nonna lays the last one in front of Sofia, stands there for a beat. Sofia looks up. Nonna nods once. Goes back.
I look at the dish in front of me and I think: Mama. I don’t say it. I eat it instead.
Cassia takes a bite. Looks at Dante. Dante looks at Nonna.
“Nonna.”
“Eat it, cher.”
