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She marches straight to Father Romani, her steps short but fast, her face darker than I’ve ever seen it.

“Animale senza vergogna!” she shouts—shameless animal.

Her palm strikes the side of his face. His head jerks sideways.

I gasp again, frozen in place.

And then—another slap.

“Vecchio verme ipocrita!” she hisses—you old hypocritical worm.

Father Romani stumbles slightly, his rosary slipping from his hand, his cheeks flushed red. He looks smaller now. Guilt is written all over his face, but he tries to gather himself.

“Please, Carmela, calm down—”

“Calm down?” Nonna barks. “Get out of my sight!”

Bea steps forward gently, voice quiet and steady.

“Father, I think you should go.”

Romani nods weakly, eyes flicking down. He picks up his rosary and shuffles slowly toward the door, limping a little as if the years have suddenly caught up to him. He doesn’t look back.

The door closes behind him with a soft thud.

I’m still frozen in place, trying to understand what just happened. My arms feel heavy. My feet won’t move.

Nonna turns to us, her face still trembling with rage.

“Stack the chairs. We’re closing the café.”

I blink. “But, Nonna, it’s only—”

Bea cuts in quickly, grabbing my hand. “Don’t argue. Just do it.”

She gently pushes me toward the tables and starts lifting chairs onto them, one by one.

I follow her lead, though my hands feel clumsy and slow. I watch her movements—she flips the chairs over and balances them on the wooden tabletops like she’s done it a thousand times. I try to match her pace, trying not to drop anything or make noise.

Nonna lowers herself into one of the chairs at the corner table. Her knees creak a little, and I notice she presses one hand to her lower back before sitting fully. She looks older all of a sudden—tired in a way that worries me.

Her lips are moving again.

Her fingers move quickly along the rosary beads.“Ave Maria, piena di grazia…”

Her voice is low, almost whispering. She keeps repeating the words, over and over, her gaze unfocused. It’s like she’s trying to sew herself back together with every Hail Mary.

I keep stacking chairs, stealing glances at her. Bea is near the window now, drawing the curtains closed. The café is dimmer now, quieter.

“Holy Mother,” I whisper under my breath, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

****

Even when we return from the café, the tension doesn’t ease up. Nonna goes wordlessly to the kitchen and begins to cook.

We want to help but she orders us to sit till she calls us. She says prayers as she cooks. Bea and I sit in my room, wordlessly exchanging glances.

When Nonna calls us to the table, we come quietly.