Willow POV
Our food came out then, plates piled high with wide ribbons of pappardelle coated in Giorgio’s slow-cooked Sunday ragù. The rich tomato sauce clung to the pasta, studded with tender chunks of braised beef, slices of Italian sausage, and two massive meatballs that looked like they could have fed a small family on their own. Fresh basil and shaved Parmigiano melted into the heat of the dish, and a basket of garlic bread landed beside us a moment later.
The smell alone was enough to make my stomach growl.
Damian glanced down at the plate, then back toward the kitchen where Giorgio had disappeared. “This is the house special?”
“His pride and joy,” I said, twirling a forkful of pasta. “He calls it Sunday gravy. Says it’s the recipe his grandmother brought from Sicily.” I took the
