Mamma went on a tangent of, “How could your papà agree to this?” and “All my wedding plans, ruined!” for a solid five minutes. “You’re living with him, not married! It’s osceno!”
“It wasn’t my choice,” I mumbled.
“We’re only pushing the wedding back a week. I’m not letting that Russo get the cow for free.”
I closed my eyes. “Mamma, that’s not how the saying goes.”
“Who cares how it goes! He shoots my son, decides to marry one daughter, then steals the other! Non ci posso credere. How am I going to plan another wedding in time? And this arrangement? Disonora la famiglia, lo è—”
“You don’t have to plan it. Email me the list of what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”
She was crying now, through unintelligible Italian. “Mia figlia . . . sposata.” A switch flipped. “Fine. We’ll go to the dress shop tomorrow.”
I sucked in a shallow breath. I was getting married.
It felt so strange to my ears.
We went over a few wedding details, and then I asked about a couple of easy recipes I could experiment with. I wrote down the recipes on a notepad as I stood at the island, doodling when she went off topic, which was often and mostly about her unwed and pregnant daughter. I wanted to talk to Adriana and quell her worry about Ryan, but I wouldn’t until I knew for sure that Nico wasn’t lying to me. I wouldn’t raise her hope just to crush it.
I glanced toward the back door when it opened, and hesitation ran through me as I met a cold gaze. Luca halted, one hand on the handle, and then he stared at me for what felt like a minute. He shook his head, a small smile pulling on his lips as he took his cell phone out of his pocket and began texting while walking to the couch.
I swallowed, somehow feeling like I was the subject of that text, and then responded in the negative to my mamma’s “What am I, talking to a wall?”
As Luca sat on the couch and turned the TV on to a ball game, I finished writing down the recipes.
It wasn’t until I said goodbye and hung up that I realized Mamma believed Veal Milanese was an appropriate meal for a beginner. I sighed and then thought with some kind of masochistic inclination that I could invite Jenny over to help. Ugh.
Nico came down the stairs, hair wet, in a white dress shirt, gray tie, and pants. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he saw Luca lounging on the couch with one arm resting on the back, before continuing his descent.
The timer on the stove went off, and I pulled the baked rigatoni out of the oven. My mouth watered as garlic and basil filled the kitchen. It took a lot to ruin my appetite—apparently more than marrying a murderous don.
As I filled my plate, Nico’s presence brushed my side. I glanced at him and smiled as I could only imagine women had in the fifties.
“Hungry?”
A hint of amusement pulled on his lips. “Nah, I have a lunch meeting.” His gaze fell toward his cell sitting on the island. “You don’t have a phone?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to explain that it was taken from me six months ago, but Nico must have read it on my face. Something obscure sparked in his eyes. I wondered if he would ever question me about it, about him, but he only said, “We’ll get you one tomorrow.”
Truthfully, I hadn’t missed my phone. My friends were limited to my family. Outsiders could never truly understand me. I was a mold the Cosa Nostra had created, a triangle trying to fit in the square of society.
“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” he said, before adding in an amused drawl, “Though, I can see you’ve already done that.”
“When does your cook come? I would like to meet her.” Maybe she would be kind enough to give me some pointers, though that might not be such a great idea, because as soon as I learned I would want to find her other employment. The idea of having my own home to run was an unexpected thrill, no matter if I had to share it with Nico.
“Isabel comes Mondays and Thursdays. She cleans too.”
She’d been here yesterday, yet his room was such a mess? Maybe he was weird about his things. I shook it off.
“Do you have a computer I can use? I need to help Mamma with some of the wedding details.”
“There’s a laptop in my office. You can use that. And”—he pulled out his wallet and tossed a black credit card on the counter—“for all that money you spend.”
I didn’t like the personal nature of spending this man’s money. Especially with the idea of his bank information already in my duffel bag upstairs. “I don’t need it. I have my papà’s,” I replied, pulling my bottom lip in between my teeth.