Across from me sits Matteo, the responsible one. Thirty-five, built like a tank, dark hair neatly trimmed, beard well-groomed, wearing a navy sweater that somehow makes him look even more like a disapproving father despite only having one kid. His wife, Sophia, sits beside him, beautiful in her emerald dress, effortlessly put together. Their daughter, my little niece, is seated in a high chair, tomato sauce already staining her bib, blissfully unaware that the entire family is one wrong comment away from mayhem.

To Matteo's left sits Luca, the hothead. Thirty-two, lean but muscular, face permanently set in a look of suspicion or irritation, depending on the topic. Right now, his brown eyes are locked onto Nico, clearly gearing up for a fight before dinner even starts. He's wearing a black Henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, arms flexing as he leans forward like he's ready to pounce. The scar on his right forearm from a childhood bike accident stands out white against his olive skin.

And then there's Nico, the charmer. Thirty, ridiculously good-looking and he knows it. His dark brown hair is artfully tousled, his shirt slightly unbuttoned like he just stepped out of a magazine ad, and his smirk is permanently set to "trouble." He sits back way too relaxed, one arm draped over the empty chair beside him, sipping his wine like it's just another day of him avoiding commitment and pissing Luca off for sport.

"Listen," Luca says, holding up his hands, defensive already. "I'm just saying, it's not that weird."

Nico scoffs, shoving a piece of bread in his mouth. "No, it's weird. It's deeply weird," he says between chews.

I raise a brow. "Okay, what's weird?"

Luca points at Nico. "He thinks it's psychotic to eat soup at breakfast." And then he frowns. "And don't eat before we say grace. The bread hasn't been blessed yet."

Nico rolls his eyes. "It's not Communion. I'm not going to hell for eating an unblessed breadstick."

Nonna makes the sign of the cross from where she's sitting, the gold of her rings catching the light.

Matteo, ever the level-headed one, sighs. "I'm sorry—what?"

Luca huffs. "In Japan, they eat soup in the morning all the time."

Nico makes a disgusted face. "Yeah, okay, but you're from New Jersey, and you're eating fucking minestrone at seven in the morning."

Luca shrugs. "I like soup."

Matteo shakes his head. "You need therapy."

"Okay, big talk from the guy who keeps a fully stocked bar in his apartment but doesn't even own a microwave."

Nico snorts. "That is true."

Matteo scowls. "I don't like how microwaves make food taste, okay?"

"Oh please," Nico interrupts, "says the man who once ate a Hot Pocket straight from the freezer because he was too impatient to heat it up."

"That was ONE time!" Matteo protests, his voice echoing through the dining room.

A pot crashes in the kitchen, the metallic clang followed by Mama's exasperated sigh. Tony Soprano starts yapping at the noise, which sets Lady Gaga off as well, their high-pitched barks filling the air.

"Lorenzo!" Mama calls out. "Control your dogs before I send them to live with your sister in Butler!"

Dad just chuckles, reaching down to slip each dog a piece of prosciutto, the salty scent rising as they snatch it from his fingers, which immediately silences them. "They're fine, Maria," he calls back. "Just excited."

Mama walks out of the kitchen, balancing the last of the serving plates. The rich aroma of garlic, basil, and tomato sauce wafts through the room. She moves with effortless precision, even in her modest floral dress and house slippers, her dark hair neatly pinned back but still somehow perfect. Soft brown eyes sweep over the table, taking inventory.

She sets the dish down, her gold cross necklace catching the light as she straightens up. There's flour on her apron, a faint smudge on her wrist, but she doesn't notice—she never does.

She's been doing this for so long, making sure we all come together, eat well, stay close. Mama is the glue. The backbone. The quiet force that keeps the Russo family running.

And yet, when she looks at us, there's always that hint of worry in her eyes—like she's assessing how far we've drifted, if we'll ever settle down, if she's done enough to keep us tethered to each other.

"You all need Jesus," she mutters, the scent of her rose perfume wafting by as she takes her seat.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Dad, across from me, just sits back in his chair, waiting for the chaos to unfold like it's his favorite TV show.

And honestly?

It probably is.

"Nonna, do you have another rosary I could borrow? You know, for... spiritual guidance."

Nonna’s eyes light up like I’ve just announced I’m entering a convent. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out not one but three rosaries, each more ornate than the last. The beads click together like chimes.

“Per te, Isabella,” she says in Italian, pressing a gleaming blue glass-beaded rosary into my hand. “Così troverai un buon marito.”

I take it, pretending I don’t hear Nico’s snicker—or his helpful mutter from behind me.

“She says it’ll help you find a husband. Preferably one with a job. And a spine.”

“Thank you, Nonna,” I say sweetly, tucking it into my purse before she can try to bless me with the other two.

She pats my hand, then leans in to whisper something in rapid-fire Italian.

Nico, of course, is quick to translate from across the table. “She says Evan is trash.”

I arch a brow at him. “Pretty sure your Italian needs work.”

Nonna beams, entirely unbothered.

My mother claps her hands together before Nico can fire back.

“Okay,” she says firmly. “Let’s say grace.”

We all bow our heads.

Mama starts, voice soft and reverent.

"Dear Lord, thank You for bringing our family together today. Thank You for the food we're about to receive, for the blessings You have given us."

So far, so good.

"And thank You for giving me a grandchild."

I internally groan.

Here we go.

Mama continues, totally unfazed.

"Thank You for allowing one of my children to enter a beautiful, holy marriage."

Matteo, the only married one, just nods smugly.

"And Lord, I pray for my other three children," Mama says, her tone dramatic.

Across the table, Luca looks at me. The candle's flame catches in his eyes, making them glint with mischief.

"That they may soon find their way."

Maria coughs into her napkin, the embroidered fabric barely concealing her smile.

Dad hides a chuckle behind his wine glass, the deep red liquid swirling as he raises it to his lips.

"And Lord, we ask that You guide them toward marriage and family," Mama finishes. "Before their poor mother dies waiting."

Nico snorts.

Luca grins.

I contemplate stabbing myself in the eye with an unholy breadstick.

"And if it be Your will," Mama adds, surprising everyone by continuing, "let the signs I've been seeing be true." She glances meaningfully at me.

"Mama!" I hiss, mortified, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.

"Amen," Nonna says, crossing herself, the gold bangles on her wrist jingling softly.

Mama claps her hands together, beaming. "Alright! Let's eat!"

Like she didn't just publicly shame half her children and declare divine intervention in my love life.

Plates start filling up, the scrape of serving spoons against ceramic mixing with conversation.