Page 251 of Rosetti Family New York
“No, no, no,” Nanna says, tapping Sloane’s wrist. “Stir from the bottom. This sauce doesn’t like lazy wrists.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sloane says, grinning.
There’s a pink flush on her cheeks that’s got nothing to do with the heat.
“Who even taught you to cook?” Carmela pipes up from the dining table, eyeing Sloane over a glass of Chianti. “You didn’t strike me as the apron-wearing type.”
“My friend Maddy,” Sloane says, glancing back at her.
That sentence hangs in the air like it’s heavier than the saucepot. My stomach tightens. So does my jaw.
“She used to say the only way to learn a sauce was to burn it once,” Maddy adds, softer now. “Which I did. Twice.”
“Oh, babe, your friend who died?” Carmela says, voice softer than usual.
She’s curled at the kitchen table, flipping lazily through a magazine but not really looking at the pages.
Nanna Toni takes the spoon back for one stir. Slow, sure, practiced.
“Then you know how to cook with grief,” she says, handing the spoon back to Sloane with the ceremony of handing over a crown. “That’s the best kind of sauce.”
It hits like a punch to the chest. Quiet. Heavy. But honest. We all sit with it for a second. Sloane’s eyes flick toward me, and the sharp edge of the doorway presses into my back. I look down at my hands, flex my fingers like they’ll explain what I’m feeling, feeling the creak of the leather.
The room falls into that kind of silence only the Rosettis know how to hold, quiet, but never empty. And then, because the universe can’t stand tension longer than ten seconds—
“Buy me a bible,” Matteo calls from the open kitchen window, half hanging out. “Someone’s walking a dog in yoga pants, and I think I believe in God again.”
Nanna Toni doesn’t even blink.
“If you bring another woman to my table who can’t pronounce ‘gnocchi,’ I’ll drown you in the bathtub.”
“She can say pasta,” Matteo says, laughing. “I checked.”
“Does she eat pasta or just take pictures of it for the ‘Gram?” Emilio asks, walking in with one of our cousins’ kids draped over his shoulder like a giggling scarf.
Matteo shrugs. “Don’t judge my journey.”
Sloane snorts. It’s a real laugh. Not polite or careful, not the kind she gives people she’s trying to impress. It’s open, unguarded. And I want to hear it again. And again.
Emilio shuffles the toddler on his shoulder.
“Who taught this one to bite ankles? Matteo?”
“If it was me, she’d go for the throat,” Matteo replies, still hanging out the window like he lives there.
“She doesn’t even talk,” Emilio mutters to no one, giving the toddler a playful bounce. “But if she could, she’d roast you.”
Besiana’s eyes flick up from her espresso, the steam curling around her elegant dress.
“Anyone else notice Rafe hasn’t taken his eyes off her this entire time?” she drawls.
“Shut up,” I say flatly.
Dom doesn’t look up from his cup.
“You bring a woman to Nanna’s house, you better be thinking long-term.”
“I didn’t think Rafe had a long-term,” Matteo calls, clearly delighted with himself, his laughter blending with the chatter echoing off the walls.
