I take one sip and immediately regret it. Coughing, sputtering, dying. Excellent. Death by wine and overprotective brother.

Cal doesn't even blink.

"My intentions?" he echoes smoothly.

Matteo nods, serious as ever. "Are you planning on sticking around?"

Cal is completely unfazed by his question. He doesn’t even hesitate. "Yes," he says simply. "I am."

Luca narrows his eyes, clearly disappointed that Cal isn't squirming. "So, you got a solid job?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.

"Yes," Cal answers.

"Good benefits?"

"Yes."

"Debt?"

"Nope."

"Criminal record?"

"Clean."

Nico raises an eyebrow. "Not even a little?"

Cal takes a sip of his wine. "Not that anyone can prove."

Matteo nearly drowns in his drink. Dad is just sitting back, watching with pure amusement. I dig my nails into my thigh, wondering when exactly my life became a reality show.

"So," Nico continues, spearing a meatball. "You were military, yeah?"

Cal nods.

"Did you kill anyone?"

I slam my fork down. "Are you kidding me?"

"What?" Nico shrugs. "It's a valid question."

"No, it's not! That's a completely insane thing to ask someone you just met at the dinner table!"

Cal just chuckles, setting his glass down. "Yes."

Silence.

Luca’s mouth drops open. Matteo mutters something under his breath. Nico looks way too impressed. Mama's eye twitches. Nonna, unfazed, simply pats Cal's bicep and tells him that it’s “good to have strong men in the family.”

I bury my face in my hands.

"Izzy," Mama hisses, like I somehow caused all of this.

"Don't look at me!" I exclaim. "They're the ones interrogating him!"

"Oh, sweetheart." Cal's voice is pure amusement as he leans over, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to my temple. "They're not interrogating me."

"They're trying."

Nico eyes Cal's plate. "So what's your family like? You eat gravy every Sunday growing up like us?"

Cal shrugs casually. "Not exactly."

"What'd you eat?"

"Ragu."

The entire table goes dead silent. Even the dogs stop their incessant yapping.

Luca's fork clatters against his plate. Matteo's eyebrows shoot up so far they nearly disappear into his hairline. Mama gasps, hand flying to her chest like she's having heart palpitations. Nonna crosses herself three times in quick succession, muttering rapid-fire prayers.

"I'm so sorry," Nico finally says, utterly sincere.

Cal looks at me, confusion written all over his face.

I bite back a laugh. “In this house, jarred sauce is blasphemy.”

“Bestemmia!” Nonna declares, jabbing her fork in Cal’s direction. Her voice is harsh, but her eyes are gleaming with affection. Then she adds something else, waving her hand dismissively before pointing at his plate.

“But we’ll fix you. You’re family now. You’ll learn.”

The words settle somewhere deep in my chest. They’ve never said that about Evan. Not once. And hearing Nonna say it—to Cal, who’s only been around for five minutes—it hits me harder than I want to admit.

After that, dinner somehow manages to get even more chaotic. Nonna keeps insisting Cal eat more, piling his plate so high I’m surprised it doesn’t tip the table. Nico keeps trying to challenge him to increasingly ridiculous contests. Luca keeps baiting him with loaded questions, trying to trick him into saying something incriminating while Matteo watches with amused detachment.

Dad just watches it all unfold with a smug smile, sipping his wine like it's the best show he's seen in years, occasionally sneaking food to Tony and Gaga, who have stationed themselves permanently under his chair.

But the best part? The absolute best part? Cal handles it all effortlessly.

He deflects Nico's challenges with easy smiles and one-liners. He dodges Luca's traps with smooth, calculated answers. And he listens to Nonna like she's the Pope herself, nodding along with every one of her stories while simultaneously finishing an entire extra plate of food just to make her happy.

I just sit there, watching in awe, trying to figure out when exactly this man became so effortlessly woven into my life. At some point, I catch Matteo watching me. When I glance over, he just gives me that look—amused, all-knowing—like he’s already figured something out I haven’t.

I scowl. "What?"

He shrugs.

"Nothing."

And then, under his breath, he mutters⁠—

"I like him."

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Because if Matteo likes him? That means this man is officially family.

EVERY WORD SHE THINKS TURNS HER ON HAS BEEN MINE.

CAL

The drive home is quiet.

Not uncomfortably so, but quiet in a way that tells me Izzy's thinking. Processing. Probably replaying every chaotic second of dinner with her family, cringing at each over-the-top comment her mom made, each inappropriate joke her brothers told, probably wondering if I had a miserable time.

She couldn't be more wrong.

I loved it.

It was loud, messy, hilarious—nothing like my solitary existence—but damn if it wasn't a refreshing change from my quiet routine.

And maybe it makes me realize an important truth, too.

That she's right and I really do need to call my dad.

Izzy clears her throat beside me, shifting in her seat like she's working up the nerve to speak. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, watching as she presses her lips together, debating. I save her the trouble.

"I had fun," I say, breaking the silence.

Her head snaps toward me so fast I almost laugh. "You did?" she asks, completely incredulous, like I just told her I enjoy getting waterboarded for fun.

"Yeah, I did."

Her brows pull together like she doesn't quite believe me. "But they're so...much."

"They are," I agree. "But I liked it. They care about you. That much is obvious."

She huffs, shaking her head. "They're nosy as hell, is what they are."

I chuckle, thinking about her brothers cornering me outside. "They're protective," I amend. "We agree on at least one priority."

She raises an eyebrow. "And that is?"

I glance at her. "Our mutual hatred for Evan."

She laughs, rolling her eyes. "God, they wouldn't let that go."

"Can you blame them?" I ask, turning onto her street. "They want to make sure you're taken care of. That you're happy."

Her lips press together, and a quiet wistfulness settles over her face—a softness I’m not sure I’ve seen before, or know how to name.

Then, she exhales, shaking her head with a small, amused smile.

"Pretty girl," I say, looking at her from the corner of my eye.

She turns to look at me and that's when I freeze. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, and I don't need to fully look at her to know she's watching me now.

"Why do you call me that?" she asks, her voice light, curious.

Fuck.

How long have I been calling her that out loud? I just got so comfortable with it. It's second nature. I don't even think about it. It's just who she is to me.

I swallow, forcing a casual shrug. "It just feels right."

She tilts her head slightly. "Feels right?"

I chance a glance at her. "You're my pretty girl," I say simply, because it's the truth. "Why wouldn't I call you that?"