Page 1 of Ink

PROLOGUE

INK

“Che bella bambina! Una principessa!” mymammaexclaimed, placing a hand dramatically on her chest. She gazed adoringly at the picture of the “princess” my aunt Bridget showed her on her phone.

The baby was Bridget’s grandchild, Luna, who had just turned one. Since Bridget was actually my cousin—despite being old enough to be my mother—that made Luna some kind of cousin too, but I had so many of those, I’d stopped keeping track of how we were related.

We were Italian…baby making was in our blood. Or so my mother kept telling me.

My cousin Rafa leaned toward me and murmured, “Wait for it…”

I winced, knowing he was right, and sure enough, right on cue, my mother’s watery eyes slid over to me.

“I would just love a grandbaby,” she sighed. The sound alone sent a full-blown guilt trip square in my direction. A special talent most Italian mothers seemed to possess.

“Mamma,” I muttered. “What exactly are Enzo and Valentina’s kids, if not grandbabies?” My older brother and his wife had six kids, for the love of Sant'Anna. The Patron Saint of Mothers and Fertility was plenty busy with them.

“They live all the way up in New York City, Matteo,” my mom responded with a sniff that was both sad and accusing at the same time.

“I’ll get to it eventually,” I grumbled. Though I seriously doubted it would be anytime soon.

She obviously knew me too well because she narrowed her eyes and snapped, “When?”

My mouth opened and closed a few times, and my eyes darted around, looking for an escape or help. Gavin, my sixteen-year-old brother, was grinning, and I glared, promising him retribution for enjoying my torture. At the head of the table, my stepfather, Alfonso, had his head down, seemingly focused on his food, but I could see the slight shake of his shoulders.

Almost twenty people were crammed into the dining room, and a little over half were men. The single guys were practically shrinking in their seats, trying to avoid being the next victim in the line of fire. And the married guys didn’t even try to disguise how amused they found the whole spectacle.

Even Bridget’s husband, Mac—the gruff president of the Silver Saints Motorcycle Club—who’d been like a second father to me and almost never smiled, had one corner of his mouth kicked up.

Bastards.

Finally, my eyes landed on Rafa, who sat next to me at the dinner table. My gaze slid away from him guiltily when I shrugged and said, “Rafa’s older than me. Why don’t you pester him about why he isn’t married and making babies?”

If we hadn’t been in my mom and stepfather’s house, I probably would have felt the barrel of his gun in my ribs. Luckily for me, he didn’t bring it to Sunday dinner. Well, not inside the house anyway.

“Traditore,” he grunted.

Couldn’t argue with that. I was definitely a traitor, but I’d do it again to save my own skin.

Aunt Giulia, Rafa’s mother, snorted and shook her head. “I’ve given up on Raffaele for grandbabies.”

“Perhaps I simply haven’t found the right woman,” Rafa groused.

“And you never will if you don’t stop working all the time and go on a date.”

“I date,” he defended himself half-heartedly.

“Taking your distant cousin to a charity ball last month hardly qualifies as a date, Rafa,” Gabbi, his younger sister, chimed in with a delighted expression.

“How would you know?” he rebutted with a scowl. “You don’t date.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered, “I could if you didn’t scare away every man who even looks in my direction! And that’s only if they aren’t terrified by the last name DeLuca first.”

“Per amore di tutto ciò che è sacro,” Rafa sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

For the love of all that is holy is right, cuz. Where was a miracle when you needed one?

The doorbell interrupted the awkward moment.

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