Page 19 of Thief of my Heart

“Long too,” Marie agreed.

“Hush,” I told them. “Don’t be rude.”

“Did—did you want to add anything?” Matthew asked Nonno. Though his challenge was only halfhearted now. That defiant gaze now dropped back to his plate, where he pushed some ricotta around in a circle with his fork.

Nonno’s focus, however, had transferred to Michael. He watched him with something like surprise. Surprise, but also respect.

He didn’t look at very many people that way.

I was starting to understand why he had asked Michael to use his given name.

I was starting to understand a lot of things.

“No,” Nonno said. “I think that’s enough.”

He nodded at Michael, who returned the gesture before dipping back to his meal, still acting like he had commented on the weather instead of my brother’s future.

Immediately, the typical Zola racket rose again, as Matthew and Nonno began discussing Matthew’s course load, Nonna helped Joni and Marie cut their manicotti, and Kate and Frankie debated the merits of Matthew’s failed rebellion.

I stole glances at the man sitting next to me, who seemed content to fade into the background as easily as he had stolen the spotlight.

“Hey,” I said, nudging his shoulder.

Michael’s dark brows rose in challenge like he was expecting an argument.

“Pass the salad,” I said, pointing to the bowl on the other side of him. “We haven’t gotten it on this side.”

He blinked, then obediently handed it to me.

His own plate, however, was bare of anything green.

I held it back out, holding the bowl so he could serve himself. “You should eat your vegetables. They’re good for you.”

He blinked at me—this time with a bit of humor. “I don’t really like them.”

“What are you, five? Even my baby sister eats her greens.” I shoved the bowl at him. “Take some. They’ll make you grow big and strong.”

Michael hid a smile, but not before it caused a pair of dimples to make an appearance. “What, I ain’t big enough for you?”

Something about that particular question made me shiver. It was meant as a joke, but it sounded like a dare. The kind that made my cheeks heat.

I glanced around to see if anyone else had overheard our little exchange, but my family was still too caught up in their own banter.

“That,” I said to him, “remains to be seen.”

Michael stifled a cough and slapped his chest.

“Eat,” I pressed. “Don’t offend the host.”

That apparently motivated him, since he served himself a bit of salad—greens dressed simply with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

“All right,” Michael said with a mild smirk as I took the bowl back and started to serve myself. “You win, contessa.”

“Contessa?” I wondered.

That was a first.

The dimples returned, and this time, they stuck around.

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