Page 144 of Shadow Of Sin

“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.