“If she’s the one, she’ll have to understand the sacrifices involved.”
“That’s nonsense. You’re a grown man. It’s time you act like one.”
“Says the woman with the unicorn hair. Ah!”
Something hot, sticky, and gooey lands in my ear.
Something like a damn clump of ziti fixings.
There’s too much of it to stay in my ear, so now it’s dribbling down my bare shoulder and chest and onto the floor, which I can’t mop too much because the linoleum is cracked, and I’ll damage the subfloor and have to replace that too.
I’m usually further into renovation projects at this point in the season, but I’m not usually enjoying being part of a team as much as I’m enjoying being a Fireball this year.
Dammit, I hope they don’t trade me.
But with my track record—it’s only a matter of time.
You could say commitment and I don’t go together anywhere.
I bend over the sink, glaring at my grandmother while I rinse out the cursed food.
She lifts a brow. “I could’ve set your hair on fire.”
“Not if you want a good Christmas present,” I grumble.
“Luca, how many women have you dated?”
I straighten, turn off the water, and grab a towel to dry my ear and face. “Don’t you have to bake the ziti before we get started with you shriveling my nuts?”
Shut up, Rossi. SHUT. UP.
“Your oven isn’t heating fast enough.” She thumps the wall oven, which looks like a double-oven, but is actually the world’s smallest oven with the world’s largest broiler.
“It’s an antique,” I hear myself say. “Works better if you light a wood fire in the broiler.”
She frowns at the oven.
Frowns bigger at me.
Her eyes start to narrow, and I am not ready for this.
My cousin Louie got the Eye put on him, and he was married to Isabella within two months. My cousin Joe? Seven months to a pregnant bride. Alonzo? He told Nonna to go to hell, and three days later, he was in a full body cast in the hospital.
Alonzo’s an accountant. He drives a Volvo with a crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror, takes Fiber One every morning at breakfast, collects stamps, and has a YouTube channel where he discusses the ins and outs of button manufacturing.
For fun.
The only brave thing he’s ever done in his entire life is to tell Nonna to go to hell when she put the Eye on him.
He slipped in his tub and broke every bone in his body while replacing his shower curtain hooks three days later.
I went to his wedding to one of his nurses the next Christmas. Under protest, for the record, but I went like I’ve gone to every one of my cousins’ weddings.
Don’t tell me The Eye isn’t powerful.
And I play baseball for a living. Do you know how many opportunities there are for broken bones, torn groins, and balls to the head—not to mention freak bat accidents—every single day?
I shower naked with twenty other men on a regular basis.
I am not getting The Eye.
“Nonna, this isn’t necessary.”
“Oh, I think it is.”
“It—Jesus.”
I leap, because something furry brushes my leg, and I don’t own furry.
Except—fuck on a fuck sandwich.
I have a houseguest.
I have a female houseguest. Who needs to leave. Now. Without Nonna seeing her.
“Luca Antonio,” Nonna growls, and I don’t know if it’s for the Jesus out loud or the fucks in my head.
But I’ll keep both of them, thank you very much.
Henri’s cat—dressed in a bunny outfit—has plopped her ass down beside my foot and is lying on her side while she licks at the bits of ziti that fell off my ear.
And I’m getting an awful idea.
An awful, terrible, horrible, I’ll-probably-get-a-concussion-and-end-my-baseball-career-for-this idea. In fact, it’s such an awful idea, I give myself idea whiplash.
“Can you give me a few months before we do The Eye?” I hiss. “I don’t want to freak out Henri.”
I am going to hell.
In my own house.
Probably within the next five minutes.
Nonna folds her arms. “If you think claiming to be gay is going to stop me, look what happened to your cousin Tony when I put the Eye on him.”
Right. Happily married to Tom, his former neighbor-enemy, and adopting twin girls that were left between their apartment doors approximately six hours after The Eye happened.
“Henrietta,” I correct.
I can do this. I can tell Nonna that I’m dating Henri, and then she heard about The Eye, freaked, and ran away.
And then I can kick Henri out.
It’s brilliant.
Or possibly desperate.
“Yes, love?” Like a demon summoned from the Underworld, the woman herself pops into the kitchen.
She’s in a pink tank top without a bra—fuuuuuck me—and short shorts decorated with pandas above her skinny legs. Her hair’s a mess of short brown curls sticking up at all angles under a backwards baseball cap, her cheeks are rosy, and her breasts jiggle while she bounce-steps the seven paces into the kitchen to join me at the sink, where she wraps her arms around my waist while she goes up on tiptoe to lick the ziti off my shoulder. “Mm, breakfast.”
I almost recoil at the unexpected touch, except I can’t, because Nonna needs to believe this.
Also, I need to put some clothes on.
Henri needs to put some clothes on.
I need to catch up real quick on why Henri’s hugging me, but first, I need to be grateful.
Except Nonna is not impressed.
“Luca, are you going to introduce me to your guest?”
Gone is TikTok Nonna with a sparkle in her eye and a groove in her step, and in her place is the formidable head of an Italian crime organization.
Not that we’re into crime in our family. It’s more that she can channel it.
“Henri, this is Nonna. My grandmother. Nonna, this is Henri.”
Henri claps her hands. “Oh my gosh! This is the best. Hi, Nonna. I love your hair.”
Crime Boss Nonna doesn’t take the bait. “What are your intentions toward my grandson?”
“She’s—” I start, but Henri suddenly squeals.
“I know you! You’re TikTok Nonna! Luca. You didn’t tell me you were related to TikTok Nonna!” She swats playfully at my arm. “And I even wore my TikTok Nonna shirt yesterday, and you didn’t say a word.”
“Considering how much you haven’t enjoyed meeting the rest of my family…”
“She’s met your parents?” Nonna’s bright eyes dart to mine. Then back to Henri, whose smile has faltered, but who’s now gazing at me with the same calculated look Nonna was wearing a minute ago.
Babe Ruth on a bundt cake, does every woman secretly aspire to be a mob boss?
“Just his mom,” Henri answers smoothly.
I swallow hard. My life is about to spiral out of control. “Mom was…an unexpected participant in breaking up Henri’s wedding earlier this summer.”
Henri digs a nail into my hip while her grip around my waist tightens. “Luca and I bonded over the wedding cake while he comforted me afterwards. He was such a gentleman about the whole thing, so I came out here to thank him once I’d collected myself, and one thing led to another, and now…”