Page 250 of Rosetti Family New York
She smiles against my shoulder. "So, dinner with the family. After everything that's happened."
"It'll be good," I tell her. "A chance to breathe. To forget about the Callahans for a few hours."
"I'd like that."
We shower and dress, moving around each other like we've been doing it for years instead of days. Sloane wears one of her new dresses, a deep green gown that makes her eyes look like emeralds. I watch her get ready, memorizing each movement, each smile. She's softer today, the edges of her grief smoothed by what we learned from Ethan, by what we shared on the rooftop.
By the time we're in the car, the afternoon sun is warm on the dashboard. Sloane's hand finds mine as I drive, her fingers fitting between mine like they were made to be there.
"Tell me about Nanna Toni," she says.
"She's fierce. Doesn't take shit from anyone, not even Dom. Or Dad."
"Sounds like my kind of woman."
The road stretches ahead, winding through neighborhoods that grow more exclusive, more old-world with each mile. I glance at Sloane, watching her take it all in.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"Should I be?"
I consider it. "Maybe a little. Nanna will grill you about your intentions."
"My intentions?" she laughs. "With you?"
"With all of us. The family."
She sobers. "What should I tell her?"
I pause, choosing my words carefully. "The truth. That you're in this. That you're not walking away."
Our eyes meet for a moment before I turn back to the road.
"I'm not," she says quietly. "Walking away."
Something in my chest expands, warm and unfamiliar. I squeeze her hand.
"Nanna will love you," I tell her. "Not as much as I do, but enough."
The words slip out before I can catch them. I don't take them back.
She stares at me, eyes wide. Then a slow smile spreads across her face, bright enough to chase away the last shadows of what we've been through.
"I can handle your grandmother, Rosetti."
"We'll see."
Nanna Toni’s house smells like roasted garlic and crushed basil, the kind of scent that seeps into your clothes and makes you hungry even if you just ate. The kitchen is warm, loud, full of overlapping conversations and clattering pots.
“You stir until your arm hurts, capisci? If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not doing it right.”
Nanna Toni’s voice slices through the chaos of the kitchen as she presses a battered wooden spoon into Sloane’s hand like it’s a holy relic. Sloane, sleeves rolled up, already dotted with flour, doesn’t flinch.
“Got it,” she says, accepting the spoon with a grin. “Pain is flavor.”
She stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back in some half-done twist that’s already slipping loose. Her forearms are splattered with sauce, her cheeks flushed from the heat. She looks like she belongs here, even if she’s still a little too careful, still measuring how much space she’s allowed to take up.
It’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen. I lean against a doorframe, arms folded across my chest, letting my upper back press into the hard edge.
