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I turn back to the pasta, adding more salt which is definitely more than necessary.
"She was..." I begin, then stop, searching for words that don't feel inadequate. "She was the only one who saw me. Really saw me."
Alessio remains silent, waiting for more. Something about his stillness makes me continue.
"She used to sneak into my room at night with books my father would never approve of. Philosophy, feminist theory, computer science. She'd say, 'Your mind is your greatest weapon,cara mia. Never let anyone take that from you.'"
The memory makes my heart force its way up into my throat. I focus on sliding pancetta into the hot pan where it sizzles and fills the kitchen with a rich aroma.
"She taught me to cook because she said it was freedom. Even in the smallest kitchen, you can create something that is entirely yours. She protected me from my father's world as much as she could."
I stir the pancetta, watching the edges crisp. "When she got sick, everything changed. My father became more controlling. It was like he'd been waiting for her influence to be gone."
I look up to find Alessio watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with warmth that I tell myself is due to the sizzling pan.
"The day before she died, she gave me this ring." I hold up my right hand, showing the thin gold band. "She made me promise I would never let my father decide for me who I am."
Alessio’s expression has softened slightly, though his posture remains rigid.
"What about your family?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can reconsider. "You know all about mine, but I know nothing about yours."
He stiffens and slams down the grater. For a moment I think he'll ignore the question entirely.
I turn back to stir the pancetta. My brother would behave the same way. Leonardo shuts down completely when asked about himself. It's like pulling teeth to get even the smallest personal detail.
Alessio's dark eyes meet mine and to my surprise, he answers.
"My father was killed when I was fourteen. Territory dispute." His voice is flat, stripped of emotion. "My mother still lives in Naples. I call her on Sundays."
He returns to grating cheese, his movements mechanical. "She wanted me to be a doctor. Not..."
"Not Damiano Feretti's right hand?" I finish for him.
"Yes." His fingers almost gouge the cheese but I keep quiet. "She knows what I do, but we don't talk about it. Better that way."
I watch him work, noting how his shoulders are flexing through the fabric of his shirt, how carefully he's controlling his expression.
"Any siblings?" I press, testing the boundaries.
"No." He bangs the grater down with finality. "That's enough. I don't talk about my family."
But he just did. I realize he's shared more than I expected—perhaps more than he intended. I turn back to the stove, hiding my surprise.
His tone makes it clear the conversation about his family is over, but I can't help wondering about the boy who lost his father at fourteen, whose mother wanted him to heal rather than harm.
I crack the eggs into a bowl, whisking them then reaching for the grated cheese. "Two more minutes for the pasta to finish cooking." I say, confirming that the subject is dropped.
I never talk about my family. Not to anyone. Not even Damiano knows more than the bare facts about my mother.
Yet here I am, telling Antonio Lombardi's daughter about Sunday phone calls and my mother's disappointed dreams. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Melania turns back to the stove, focusing on the pasta. Her profile is soft in the kitchen light.
The scent of pancetta fills the kitchen, making my stomach growl.
"Can you get two dishes ?" She asks.
I retrieve two white plates from the cabinet, setting them on the counter beside her. She tests the pasta, nodding with satisfaction before draining it.