Page 12 of Rosetti Family New York

Nanna sips on her coffee, blowing away my comment with an annoyed huff.

Nanna’s house is all musty warmth and clashing colors, full of her needlepoints and thick drapes that’ve been there since the beginning of time. The table’s spread with every Italian breakfast dish you could want, and the smell of coffee sits thick in the air. The old woman’s perched in her chair like some vicious little queen. She wears her pearls and bright lipstick, same as always. She refuses to move onto the estate or in with my folks no matter how much dad tries to insist.

Dom’s in his suit already, hair combed like he’s got a business meeting in Manhattan instead of breakfast in Brooklyn. Nanna eyes him with something between approval and amusement, but her focus snaps back to me.

"Marriage is not just a piece of paper, Leonardo," she says, narrowing her eyes at me. "It’s family."

"I said I’ll marry her," I insist, heat rushing to my face. "Isn’t that what you all wanted?"

I picture Eleanor in her sleek dress and icy expression, imagine a crack in the surface, something honest beneath the perfect. Did Richard promise her something in return for this deal?

"The Albanians are sniffing around," Dom says. "Heard they’re trying to get into the gem business too."

"Yeah," I say, "they’ve been cozying up to Price’s contacts."

"It will be worse if you back out," Dom warns. "Like giving them an engraved invitation."

Nanna nods, almost satisfied. "Maybe you are not so stupid, after all."

Dom gives me a look like he wants to say more, but Nanna beats him to it. "The rubies from Burma are coming next week," she says. "Richard will have to choose between us and the Albanians, and if we’re united by then, he’ll choose us. Family first.”

I scrape my fork across my plate. "I’m marrying her. Change the record."

Dom and I lock eyes. The table’s silent except for the click of Nanna’s spoon and the creak of the old wood floors as I shift in my seat.

"He’s in love," Dom says finally, deadpan. "Look at him."

"Shut up," I tell him.

Nanna fixes me with a stare that could crack steel. "Love her or not, you treat your wife wrong, and I’ll smack you sideways. Even if it kills me."

"Leo’s the one you have to worry about," Dom says. "Eleanor Price will have his balls mounted on the wall."

The smell of breakfast hangs in the air, pastry and coffee mixing with old wood and Nanna’s overpowering perfume. Dom’s smirk gets on my nerves, but Nanna’s unflinching gaze is worse. They’re all in on this. Eleanor is a business arrangement to them, but to me she’s a puzzle with sharp edges. I don’t like unsolved puzzles. I don’t like not knowing what she’s really after.

"Richard’s not forcing her," Dom says, reading my thoughts.

I drag my hand through my hair, restless. "Then why is she doing this?"

Nanna gives me one last look, a cross between pity and pride. "You have three hours to find out, Leonardo. The wedding’s this afternoon, and after that, you’re in. Rosettis don’t divorce."

I stand up, scraping the chair across the floor, and kiss Nanna goodbye. I stalk out the door. The day’s getting warm already, April in New York always teasing about summer.

I’m supposed to be worried about the Albanians and the rubies, but it’s Eleanor I can’t shake from my mind. Her cold fire. Her impossible face. Her, her, her. Maybe I’m making a mistake. Maybe I’m going to regret this. Maybe I don’t give a damn.

Either way, I’m going to find out.

She doesn't notice me trailing her. The sidewalk swarms with New Yorkers clutching designer bags, but Eleanor stands out like a gleaming weapon. There's a cold, clear precision in her steps, but something's wrong. A smudge in her ice-queen veneer, a hairline crack I want to pry open.

Everything about her should put me off, but the opposite happens. Her perfect facade gets under my skin. It's that aloof distance, the way she slices through the world without a glance back, that pulls me in. She's flawless on the surface—exactly what you'd want from a wife in the business—but I'm not buying it. Her mouth’s a tight line, and she touches her jewelry too much, always spinning that thin gold ring on her finger. What’s she hiding beneath that control?

We move down the crowded street, her head high, not once turning around. I imagine pushing through that careful poise, see if it cracks like porcelain or explodes like gunpowder. A delivery guy brushes her arm, and she flinches, just barely. Yeah, something’s off.

All around her, people flood in and out of high-end boutiques. Shopping bags dangle from wrists, but Eleanor’s hands are empty. She's on Madison Avenue but doesn’t look like she’s taking any of it in. No stops at Chanel or Gucci, no slowing down. I try to read her face, but it’s impossible. Blank, unflinching. A statue come to life. I should just walk up to her, demand the truth, but she’s a mystery, and I’ve never been good at resisting those.

It’s not until she slips into a bistro and sits at a window table that I see her soften. She twists her ring while she waits, anxious or bored, I can’t tell which. Then her sister shows up, and suddenly Eleanor’s a different person. It’s like watching ice melt under a blowtorch. She stands, and the two of them hug. Her face, so impossible to read, lights up with a bright, real smile. I stay outside, leaning against a lamppost, watching.

Eleanor’s sister is blonde, peaches-and-cream, everything soft and romantic. She looks more at ease than at the fight ring, but just as young and innocent. Definitely not the woman for me. The girl says something, and Eleanor laughs. Actually laughs. Even from outside, their connection hits like a bullet. Eleanor is vivid and sincere. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but this is the lunch before the wedding—they’ve got to be talking about me. Eleanor looks determined. It seems clear she’s going into this wedding with her eyes open. She’s not being coerced. She’s making this choice herself. But why? And why am I still out here, watching like some jealous lover?