Chapter 3 - Sunday Gravy and Silent Wars
Dinner on our first night at the estate was less of a meal and more of an Italian-American interrogation disguised as a family reunion.
The dining room table was long enough to seat twenty, laden down with platters of roasted lamb, garlic-rubbed focaccia, silver bowls of salad, and a massive ceramic tureen of Nonma’s legendary Sunday gravy that smelled of basil, slow-cooked tomatoes, and red wine.
Seated directly to my left was Marco, whose knee pressed firmly against mine under the mahogany table—an anchor of warmth and solidarity amidst the swirling vortex of curious relatives.
“So, Emily, carissima,” boomed Uncle Vincenzo from across the table, waving a fork loaded with rigatoni. “Marco never brings anyone home. Never. The last woman he brought to Sunday dinner tried to take a selfie with the family portrait and asked if our olive oil was organic. Tell me you have more sense than that.”
I offered a polite, practiced smile, taking a small sip of Chianti. “I promise you, Uncle Vincenzo, I care far more about the pasta than the portraits.”
A roar of approving laughter erupted around the table. Nonma Isabella, sitting regally at the head of the table like a queen presiding over her court, narrowed her sharp dark eyes at me. She hadn't said much since we arrived, but her gaze missed nothing. Every twitch of my fork, every lingering glance between Marco and me, was being cataloged and analyzed in real-time.
“You’re too thin, child,” Nonma announced in her heavy, melodic accent, pointing a finger at me like a loaded weapon. “Marco is working you too hard at that office. You need meat on your bones. Eat more braciole.”
Before I could protest, a mountain of braised beef was unceremoniously dumped onto my plate by Aunt Maria.
“She works hard,” Marco intervened smoothly, his voice carrying the effortless authority that made grown men in Manhattan fold like paper. He reached out, his hand sliding over the small of my back, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles against the fabric of my silk blouse. “And I take care of her, Nonma. Don’t bully my girlfriend on her first weekend here.”
The table went instantly still.
The clinking of silverware stopped. Aunt Maria froze with her wineglass halfway to her mouth. Even Uncle Vincenzo paused, grinning broadly.
My girlfriend.
Hearing him say those words out loud—not as an administrative necessity, but with that smooth, possessive cadence—made my stomach flip into freefall.
Nonma Isabella slowly lowered her fork. She studied Marco’s face for a long, agonizing moment, then shifted her gaze to me, her lips twitching upward into a knowing, dangerous smile.
“Girlfriend,” Nonma repeated, tasting the word. “It’s been six months, Marco. In my day, six months meant church bells and diamond rings, not weekend getaways.”
I choked slightly on my wine, coughing behind my napkin. Marco’s hand on my back instantly shifted to rub soothing, firm circles between my shoulder blades, his touch burning right through my clothes.
“We’re taking our time, Nonma,” Marco replied smoothly, though I felt the muscle in his jaw tighten. “Good things require patience.”
“Patience is for politicians,” Nonma declared, though the warmth in her eyes softened. She looked back at me. “You like him, child? Really like him? Even when he’s stubborn and smells like stale espresso?”
I turned my head, finding Marco watching me with an intensity that completely stripped away the surrounding noise of the dining room. The ambient chatter faded into a distant hum. In his green eyes, I saw a flicker of vulnerability—just a fraction of a second where the impenetrable mob-boss facade cracked, revealing the man beneath who was trusting me with his family’s peace of mind.
May you like
“I like him,” I said softly, my voice steady, carrying a truth that terrified me because it was entirely real. “Even when he’s stubborn.”
Nonma beamed, raising her glass of red wine. “Bene. Pass the bread, Vincenzo. We have a wedding to plan in our lifetimes.”
