Page 71 of Rosetti Family New York

Larry’s face is flushed, his composure long gone. “I’ll get right on that."

I look at Eleanor, see the satisfaction in her eyes, the way she’s glowing from more than just the overhead lights. “We’ll be in touch,” I tell Larry, already moving toward the door.

Eleanor slips her hand into mine as we step into the elevator. “Now, aren’t you glad you brought me.”

“Had to,” I reply. “Can’t say no to my wife.”

She looks at me, a hint of mischief in her gaze. “And my father?”

The elevator descends, floor by floor, and I watch her, taking in every part of this woman who’s taken me apart and put me back together. “He’s gone,” I say. “For good.”

Eleanor squeezes my hand, and we step into the foyer on onto the street. Outside, the city waits.

37

Leonardo

My father’s antsy, chewing at the edges of his temper. Even the waitstaff at Angelo’s scurry from his stare. Dom leans back, restless, rolling his sleeve to check the time. He knows this isn’t just a lunch. Sal wouldn’t haul us out if it was. It’s just the three of us in the restaurant, a long wooden table between us, a stained-glass lamp dangling above like it’s listening too.

“Just say it already,” I mutter, impatient. But the old man’s not about to let us off easy. That’s not his style.

The restaurant’s empty, except for a busboy stacking glasses and the owner sneaking anxious looks our way. Sal practically snarled when we walked in, said he’d reserved the place. Angelo almost pissed himself clearing out the other tables. The place is tired-looking, all old wood and faded curtains. The kind of place that doesn’t give a shit about ambience because the lasagna’s better than sex.

Dom drums his fingers on the table, staring holes into the clock on the wall. “If this is about what happened at the docks, I already told you—”

“It’s not,” Sal grumbles, cutting him off. He crosses his arms, eyes flicking to me like I’m next on his list.

I shrug, lean back, and watch him stew. The air smells of garlic and marinara, and I’m starving enough to deal with a lecture if it means I get a meal.

“Still no lasagna, huh?” I joke, glancing at Dom.

He shakes his head. “Not until he tells us we’re disappointments first.”

The waiter sidles over, notebook trembling. He doesn’t bother with menus. We’ve been eating here since birth. Sal orders the Chianti before anything else, voice rough and impatient, the sound of a man who wants more than wine to settle his nerves.

“Risotto, eggplant parm, veal marsala,” he rattles off like a grocery list. “Lasagna for him.” He jerks a thumb at me. “And keep it coming.”

I grin as the waiter scuttles away. Dom’s trying to figure out what we did wrong this time, and I’m counting the seconds until I can shovel pasta in my mouth.

The Chianti arrives, deep red and heavy. Sal’s drinking before the waiter fills the last glass. I watch his throat work, the way his hands curl like he’s itching to tear into something—or someone.

“I thought you quit the red wine, old man,” I say, trying to draw him out, but Sal just grunts, pours himself another.

Tension is building. Dom glances at me, raises an eyebrow, like he’s asking if I know what the hell this is about.

“No clue,” I mouth, cracking my knuckles.

The food shows up, steaming plates and bowls crowding the table. The smells hit me hard, and I dig in without waiting, mozzarella stretching between me and the lasagna. Sal hasn’t said a word, and that’s making me nervous. The only thing worse than him yelling is him being quiet.

Finally, he sets his fork down. A hard thud against his plate. His eyes lock onto mine, then Dom’s. “It’s the Albanians,” he says, and I drop my fork. “They want to join the families.”

Dom tenses, his chair creaking as he leans forward. “How?”

“How the fuck do you think?” Sal snaps. He takes a long drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Marriage.”

I choke on a bite of pasta. Sal stares, unblinking, like he’s daring me to say something smart.

Dom’s quiet, but I can see him working it out, jaw tight, hands fisted in his lap. The Albanians are old-school like us. They’re not suggesting a fucking Halloween party. They want one of us to marry one of their daughters.