Page 103 of The Woman in the Garage

“That’s not blood on you?” he asked, gaze sliding down to my legs.

My gaze followed, and a strange little laugh escaped me. “No. No, that’s pasta sauce.”

“Good. Smart using the emergency button.”

“Santo showed me it this weekend.”

“Of course he did,” Giulia said, eyes warm. “He wants to make sure you’re safe. Even if he hasn’t told his mother that he’s clearly dating someone seriously.”

“Oh. It’s, you know, kind of… new,” I said, rushing to defend Santo.

“Nah, don’t worry,” Massimo said. “She’s just got a weird way of saying she’s happy,” he told me, giving his mom a small smile. “Since Santo isn’t here, I’ll do the introductions. Ma, this is Dasha. Dasha, this is my mom G—“

“Giulia,” I said, reaching my hand out to her. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I can’t wait to hear about you. It seems several of my boys have been keeping you from me.”

“Ma…” Massimo started.

“What the fuck is going—“ another voice called, running through the house until he found all of us.

And there he was.

Augustine.

The youngest brother.

The three of them started to talk, so I grabbed tea towels and paper towels, then lowered myself down to the floor to gather upthe ravioli and sop up the oily pasta sauce that didn’t want to be cleaned.

I was still on my hands and knees cleaning when more footsteps came rushing inside the house.

“Dasha!” Santo’s voice was raised and just shy of frantic. “Dasha!”

“She’s in here,” August called back.

“She’s alright,” Mass added.

“Thanks to Ma,” August added as Santo came running into the doorway, his gaze scanning the room until he found me.

“Dasha,” he said. All his tension drained out of him as he dropped down to his knees on the still-messy floor, and dragged me against him—pasta sauce and all.

“I’m okay,” I assured him, feeling the way his arms shook as he held me. “I’m alright. Thanks to your mom,” I added, my voice getting tight with how hard he was squeezing me.

“My mom?” he asked.

“Hi, yes, me,” Giulia called, making me turn to see her raising her hand. “The one who birthed you. Eighteen agonizing hours. No epidural. That mom.”

Santo hooked an arm around me, keeping me close as he pulled us up to our feet.

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe your girl could explain if you weren’t actively trying to strangle her to death,” August suggested.

“Shut up,” Mass said, backhanding August across the stomach.

“Santo?” another voice called, making August tip his head to look at the ceiling.

“This is becoming a circus act.”

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