“Tu novia! Que linda! Much gusto,” Mrs. Rodriguez gushes, pushing through the doorway to give me a hug, the cat still curled up in the crook of her arm.
“Oh, nice to meet you, too!” I reply, hugging her back. I give Bruno a look over her shoulder and he grins, shrugging.
“I always tell Mister Bruno, I say to him, ‘Mister Bruno! You need a woman to look after you! A handsome young man like you should not be spending so much time alone!’” she says, holding up one finger with mock sternness. “I am so happy for you, Mister Bruno! You be sweet to Serena. I like her. And so does Grasso.”
“I promise I’ll be sweet,” Bruno says, nodding dutifully. He gives me a wink when she’s not looking. Mrs. Rodriguez gives each of us a peck on the cheek, with Bruno having to bend nearly perpendicular for her to reach, then she wishes us goodnight and retreats back into her apartment, still cooing to the cat.
Bruno and I exchange expressions of amusement and then he takes me by the hand and leads me into his apartment. Once the door is shut, I burst out laughing.
“That was the cutest thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say genuinely. Bruno chuckles and heads into the kitchen.
“She’s a sweetheart. A little batty and forgetful sometimes, but she’s a good neighbor. She bakes me a cake every April,” Bruno answers. I follow him into the kitchen, watching him take out ingredients for what looks to be a very impressive dinner.
“April? Why?” I ask, confused.
He shrugs and takes out a knife and cutting board to start chopping onions and tomatoes. “She thinks my birthday is in April. It’s in September, but I don’t have the heart to keep reminding her, so I just let it go.”
“Aww,” I reply, smiling. “You know, you’ve got to be one of the most surprising people I’ve ever met, Bruno. Every time I think I have you all figured out, you go the other way entirely.”
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks, glancing sidelong at me as I lean against the counter.
I grin and shake my head, walking over to kiss him on the cheek. “No. It’s the best thing.”
The rest of the evening I spend looking through his apartment, finally taking the time to look at the minimalist decor and little quirks that speak to his character and personality. He lives simply, without frills or opulence, but he lives well. Cleanly. I can see his appreciation for the nicer things, but he doesn’t go over the top. There’s a refurbished vintage record player in the corner of the living room, a set of dumbbells tucked into an alcove, a colorful blanket folded over the back of the couch.
I ask him about the blanket and he explains that it’s a traditional pattern from the area of Italy he hails from. I run my fingers over it lovingly, as though I can get a glimpse of that version of Bruno just from touching the vibrant threads. I want to know everything about him, but I know it’s better to let him show me slowly, at his own pace. After all, I don’t plan on ever losing him again, so we have all the time in the world to learn all those little things about each other. Sure enough, he explains that the blanket is one of the few things he was able to bring with him when he first came to the States to work as a carpenter under his uncle’s tutelage. He’s kept it all these years as a memento of home, reminding him where he comes from and who he is.
Dinner is, of course, another surprise. It’s course after course of delicious, authentic Italian food. At first he tells me to just relax and let him do all the work, but I sidle up next to him in the kitchen and ask how I can help. As he goes along, he teaches me how to prepare everything, how to plate it.
“It’s funny, my family is Italian but I never learned to cook,” I tell him, slightly embarrassed. “When I was growing up, we always had a chef who came to the house to prepare most of our meals. Mom knew how to cook, but my dad didn’t want her to have to lift a finger. She was spoiled, you know? And he wanted to keep spoiling her as much as he could. And then after my dad died...well, I just didn’t get the chance to learn. We’ve had a lot of takeout over the years. Mom cooks sometimes, but I think it makes her kind of sad. A lot has had to change since Dad died, and I try to make it as easy on her as I can.”
“You’re a good daughter,” Bruno says, putting an arm around me and kissing the top of my head. “I know your father would be proud of you. Anybody would.”
After an hour or so of working side-by-side in the kitchen, Bruno shoos me away to the table so he can serve me. It’s a parade of ridiculously rich, amazing food. Wine, prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, perfectly cooked pasta, massive shrimp cooked in a spicy red sauce, a tray of expertly cut and arranged fruit. By the second course I’m already stuffed, but I keep eating, unable to resist anything Bruno brings to the table.
Over dinner, we talk about the old days, reminiscing about how young and stupid we used to be before the world knocked us off our feet.
We don’t talk about that horrible thing that happened, and I’m more than okay with that. I don’t want to think about it. Everything is so good right now, and I want it to stay this way as long as possible. I’m happy, truly happy, for the first time in a long, long while.
After dinner, we take our time cleaning up all the dishes together, just chatting and listening to the music playing from the record player. As I’m putting the wine bottle back into the rack, I notice a bottle of liquor in his cabinet that looks interesting. “Is that Campari?” I ask, pointing it out.
Bruno walks over and takes it out, along with a bottle of Prosecco. “Ah, good eye. Here, let me make you our drink.”
It’s even better with the prosecco than the soda water, and immediately I feel lighter and happier than ever. “I feel like I should pinch myself,” I laugh.
“I can assure you that the drink in your hand is real,” Bruno says coyly.
“I know that,” I say, leaning into him and resting my cheek on his chest. “I just can’t believe that you’re real. That any of this is happening. It’s too good to be true.”
Bruno tips my chin upward with his finger. He kisses me softly. “It’s all real. I promise.”
Finally, we both finish our drinks and sleepily make our way to his bed, where we curl up in each other’s arms. I feel safe and wanted, like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Like I’ve been waiting my whole life for a moment this perfect. I’ve been dreaming about this, and now it’s here.
And it’s happening again—I’m falling for him. I’ve fallen for him.
For better or for worse, there’s no denying it: I’ve fallen in love with a mafioso. Just like my mother. I’m the disgraced mafia princess, following in my mother’s footsteps.
Yet a pit in my stomach won’t go away, it knows something has to go wrong. Something painfully soon.
SERENA