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There was a fleeting moment where she looked at me, and I looked at her, and we both knew what was supposed to happen next: I’d take her home to continue what we started.

I’m pretty fucking good at reading people. And it was written all over her face.

She wanted it.

She wanted me.

And I wanted her back.

I mean, fucking obviously.

She’s disarmingly attractive. Beautiful in this edged, lethal way. She also has phenomenal, pierced tits, and had just come all over my fingers.

Did I want to take Bella home and blow her back out ten different ways?

Gee, let me think about that.

But I told her I had something to do. She looked at me strangely for half a second, covered it with some trademark sarcastic bullshit, and left.

Meanwhile, I went in the opposite direction feeling like a total dipshit.

The truly annoying part is, even when she isn't making me want to fuck her or strangle her, I find myself wondering what insane thing she's going to say next.

Or how she’s going to make me take a harder look at a part of myself.

Or how she’s going to keep me, bewilderingly, coming back for more.

“Okay, let’s get into arranged marriages,” Vito says, rubbing his hands together. “Since you’ve continued the family trend.”

Vito and my grandmother Giada, whom I sadly never met, were an arranged marriage to shore up alliances when the Italians were going to war with the Puerto Ricans way back in the day.

By all accounts, she and Vito were two peas in a pod. My dad and his siblings have always said that when they were growing up, my grandparents were like an unserious king and queen whose court was built on jokes, good food, and not taking life very seriously.

My own parents were also an arranged marriage, sort of. Vito was stepping down, Dad was taking his place, and the powers that be didn’t love the idea of a single guy running one of the most powerful Italian families in the city. So Dad held—I swear I’m not making this up—auditions for a bride. But after a few dozen mafia princesses failed to catch Dad’s eye, Mom, who was very much not a mafia princess, managed to scam her way into the mix.

And then, just like Vito and Giada, my parents ended up being a fucking romance for the ages.

“Look,” I sigh. “Whatever advice you’re about to trot out, I appreciate it. But this isn’t like Mom and Dad, or you and Nonna.”

A smile dances over his face. “What do you know about me and your Nonna?”

I shrug. “What all of us know. That you two set the damn bar. That she was the love of your life, you were her North Star, flowers bloomed at your feet when you danced together, Disney woodland creatures frolicked⁠—”

Vito starts to laugh and keeps going until tears are running down his face.

“Okay, so you got the bullshit version. Good to know.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“C’mon, kid. Your dad and your aunt and uncle spun you all these tales about a perfect marriage and unwavering, forever love, and you believed them?”

My brow furrows. “I’m confused.”

He shakes his head. “Was Giada the love of my life? Yeah, she was. Were we a perfect couple?” He snorts. “Fuck no. There were times when we wanted to kill each other. Hell, there were times she almost did it.” He winks. “Your Nonna was my heart, make no mistake. But she was also the biggest fuckin’ pain in my ass I have ever known. When we were good?” He whistles low. “Man, were we good. But I’m not perfect, and that woman, God rest her soul, was a psychopath. I swear, she had a devil in her.”

I stare at him in shock. “C’mon,” I frown. "Nonna?!"

“Swear to God, kid,” he nods. “So, yeah, go ahead and listen to your Dad’s Hallmark versions of family dinners and endless fun and games.” He wheezes out another chuckle. “That’s a carefully curated highlights reel.” He sighs and looks over at me. “You know what that woman did once when she was mad at me for coming home at five in the morning smelling like a gin factory?”