Page 64 of His Nephew's Ex
“She sounds formidable.”
“She was. Barely five feet tall but could make grown men apologize for existing with a single wooden spoon.” I laugh softly. “You would have either loved her or been terrified of her. She had no patience for men who thought charm could substitute for character.”
“Unlike her granddaughter, who’s been keeping me at arm’s length since the day you arrived.”
The gentle accusation makes me set down my fork. “I don’t keep you at arm’s length.”
“You don’t let me in either.” He cuts into his lamb with precise movements. “What else do you miss? Besides your grandmother and the noise?”
“The authenticity,” I say without thinking. “In the neighborhood, everyone knew everyone. Mrs. Castellano would watch me after school, Mr. DeLuca would slip me extra cannoli when Nonna wasn’t looking. It was like having fifty grandparents all watching out for you.”
“We could visit,” he says quietly. “The old neighborhood. I’d like to see where you learned to be so stubborn.”
The offer shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. “Most of it’s changed. Gentrified beyond recognition.”
“But your grandmother’s bakery?”
“Still there. Run by her cousin’s son now.” I take a sip of sparkling water. “Though I doubt he’d appreciate a visit from someone in my... current situation.”
“You mean someone who’s found happiness despite what others might think?”
“I mean someone who’s living with a man the neighborhood would cross themselves to avoid.”
His laugh is genuine, warm. “Fair enough. Though I suspect your grandmother would have appreciated my direct approach to problem-solving.”
“She would have hit you with a rolling pin for presuming to know what she’d appreciate.”
“Probably. But she would have respected that I take care of what’s mine.”
The possessive note in his voice should irritate me, but instead it sends warmth curling through my chest. “Tell me about Sicily,” I say, changing the subject as staff appear to clear our plates. “What was it like growing up there?”
His expression shifts, becoming more guarded. “Different from your crowded streets. Quieter in some ways, more dangerous in others.”
“In what way?”
“The sun burns everything white during the day, but at night the whole island smells like flowers and lemons.” He accepts the next course—some sort of fish that looks like art on the pristine china. “You learn early that loyalty is everything and betrayal is death. That family protects family, no matter the cost.”
“Is that why you came to America? To build your own family?”
“I came because staying would have meant choosing between my conscience and my blood.” The admission is matter-of-fact, but I hear the old pain underneath. “Sometimes leaving is the only way to survive with your soul intact.”
“Do you miss it? Home?”
“I thought I’d left that part of myself behind.” He takes a sip of wine, studying me over the rim of his glass while I sip my sparkling water. “But lately, I find myself wanting to show you the olive groves where I learned to fight. The cliffs where I used to sit and dream of escape.”
“Escape to what?”
“This. A life where I could choose my own path instead of following one that is handed to me.”
The weight of his words settles between us, heavy with meaning I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack.
“We’re both far from where we started,” I say finally.
“No,” he says, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his. “I think we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
“You’re different tonight,” I observe as he pours me more sparkling water.
“Different how?”
