Page 50 of Buried Past

"And Matthew shows up and eats whatever gets put in front of him," I finished.

Alex's expression turned serious. "And I usually try to talk people out of whatever dangerous thing they're planning." He glanced at me. "Which seems relevant tonight."

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "My role?"

"Survive." Alex grinned. "That's it."

Ma reappeared carrying a platter that could have fed a small army—lasagna surrounded by garlic breadsticks that filled theair with the smell of butter and herbs. James followed with salad while Marcus brought wine bottles tucked under both arms.

"Sit, everyone!" Ma pointed at the dining room table that groaned under mismatched plates and serving dishes. "Dorian, here beside Matthew. James, your vegetarian masterpiece is right there—chickpea casserole, made it special."

"For the vegetarian prince." Miles emerged from the kitchen with two more baskets of breadsticks.

Ma began loading Dorian's plate before he could protest, piling on lasagna and a generous scoop of James's casserole. "You're too thin. We're fixing that tonight."

I attempted to defend him. "Ma—"

"Don't Ma me. Look at him—when's the last time he had a proper meal?" She stared at Dorian. "You do eat actual food? Not one of those men who thinks coffee counts as breakfast?"

"I eat. This is... incredible. Thank you."

Miles dropped into the chair across from him. "So, Dorian. What's your damage? Trust issues? Workaholism? Secret addiction to reality TV?"

Marcus elbowed his youngest brother as he sat between him and James.

"What? I'm establishing baseline personality metrics. It's called getting to know people." Miles broke a breadstick in half, using it to gesture. "Matthew's got this whole savior complex thing. Classic middle-child syndrome, except he's not actually middle—only 3 of 4—which adds this fascinating layer of—"

Michael interrupted. "Miles, maybe you should let the man eat before you psychoanalyze him."

Dorian was already laughing, and he responded to the query. "Workaholism, definitely workaholism. Plus trust issues and an unhealthy relationship with caffeine."

"Excellent!" Miles beamed. "Self-awareness is the first step. Or so I tell my clients before charging them two hundred dollars to talk about their feelings."

Ma settled at the head of the table. "Grace," she announced, and conversation stopped as eight pairs of hands reached out to form the familiar circle.

Dorian's hand was warm in mine. On his other side, Miles grabbed his fingers with casual affection, treating him like he'd been part of the ritual for years.

Ma bowed her head. "For family gathered, food shared, and the grace to keep each other safe. Amen."

"Amen," we chorused, and the circle broke as everyone reached for their forks.

I watched Dorian take his first bite of Ma's lasagna. His eyes opened wide. His vigilance slipped completely for a moment, replaced by something that looked like pure contentment.

Outside, professional killers documented our every move.

Inside, my family was adopting a wanted man over Sunday dinner.

And somehow, both things felt exactly right.

The serious interrogation began the moment everyone had food on their plates. Marcus cut into his lasagna with surgical precision.

"So, Dorian." He took a bite. "You consult. Anything federal?"

Dorian didn't miss a beat, forking up ricotta and pasta with perfect composure. "Nothing I can discuss in front of lasagna this good. Might violate several NDAs and ruin dinner."

James leaned into Marcus's shoulder, voice pitched just loud enough for the table to hear. "Your interrogation voice isn't as sexy as you think."

Dorian sampled a breadstick. "Mrs.—Ma, this is extraordinary. Did you make the bread from scratch?"

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