Page 85 of When She Falls (The Fallen)
“What’s that face you’re making? You look like you’re about to lay an egg,” Cleo says, trying to catch another peek at my phone, but I turn it off and slide it back into my purse. “What did he want?”
“My schedule.”
She yawns. “Boring.”
We arrive at our destination, my buzz still buzzing, and we slide out of the car and step onto a frigid sidewalk in Little Italy. Papà hands the keys to the valet and marches toward the entrance, leading the pack.
As soon as we step inside the toasty restaurant, I take a long, deep inhale. It always smells so good in here, like pasta sauce, freshly baked bread, and their house red wine. The smell of my childhood. We used to come here once a week for dinner, and it was always my favorite night. The whole family would be in attendance, aunts and uncles and their broods, and while they ate, the kids would run wild and crawl under the tables. After each dinner, we were allowed to eat as much tiramisu as we wanted. On more than one occasion, that generous offer ended up with Cleo throwing up.
Tonight, we bypass the busy first-floor dining area and head straight upstairs to the lavish private room. Inside, Rafaele and Nero are already seated. Rafaele’s at the head of the table with Nero to his right.
I frown. Rafaele’s in Papà’s seat, and Papà isn’t shy about telling people to move. They rise to greet us, and when we all settle down, Papà simply takes the seat to Rafaele’s left. It’s strange. I can’t remember the last time he didn’t sit at the head of the table.
But no one else seems to notice except me.
Cleo reaches for a bottle of wine on the table and fills her glass nearly to the rim. She doesn’t offer a drop to anyone else. She’s not even supposed to be drinking since she’s only eighteen, but no one in La Trattoria enforces those rules when it comes to the family.
My fiancé’s gaze narrows on the glass, and his lips thin with displeasure.
I hang my purse off the back of her chair and whisper into her ear, “You’re being rude.”
She just shrugs and takes a big gulp.
“Gemma, how’s the wedding planning going?” Nero asks as the waiters file in with heaping plates of antipasti and salad.
“Very well. This week we settled on the centerpieces and selected the cake.”
“Chocolate?”
“White chocolate and raspberry.”
Nero grins. “Good choice.”
“Have you finalized the guest list on your side?” Mamma spears some salumi with her fork before passing the plate to Nero.
“Cousin Emiliano and his family had to drop out at the last minute, but the rest are all confirmed,” Nero says.
“Cousin Emiliano? Didn’t we meet him a few months ago at that party at your place, Rafaele?”
The plate of antipasti makes it to my fiancé, who doesn’t take anything and passes it to Papà.Great. If he doesn’t like the food here, there’s no hope he’ll like my cooking. I can’t hold a candle to Chef Caruso.
Rafaele takes a sip of his wine while Nero answers for him. “You did.”
“I thought he lived around here. Why aren’t they coming?”
Nero shakes his head. “He was in a car accident. Some fucker put him in a coma.”
Mamma makes a disapproving click of her tongue. “Drivers these days. Did Stefano tell you about what happened just a few days ago—”
Cleo sticks two fingers into her mouth and whistles. “Hey! More wine please.”
Christ. Heat travels over my cheeks. My sister is fully capable of acting like a civilized human being, so she’s doing this on purpose. I can understand why she would around Ludovico—she’s trying to scare him off—but why now? Is she just trying to embarrass Mamma?
The waiter hurries over with a bottle of red.
“She’s had enough.”
They’re the first words out of my fiancé’s mouth since we sat down, and they make the entire table go still.
