Dinner for Three
883 Words
MATTEO POV'S
7:12 p.m.
Valentina’s penthouse, 76th & Park.
I arrived with two grocery bags, no security, no driver, for once, no crown.
Just me in a black sweater and jeans, sleeves pushed up, heart hammering like a teenager on his first date.
Valentina opened the door barefoot, wearing an oversized white shirt (mine, from Positano) tucked into silk shorts.
Her hair was damp from a shower.
She smelled like jasmine and gunpowder.
Luca launched himself at my legs the second he saw me.
“Boat man! You cook pasta?”
I lifted him. Finally allowed.
“I cook the best pasta, piccolo. Carbonara. Like Nonna taught me.”
Valentina leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed arms, eyes narrowed.
“No pancetta. Luca’s allergic.”
I nodded. Already knew. I’d read every caption she’d ever written.
She stepped aside. “Kitchen’s that way. Impress me.”
The penthouse was exactly her: sleek black marble, gold accents, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.
Luxe Bloom prototypes hung on a rack like modern art.
A tiny pair of velvet loafers sat by the door, Luca’s.
I set the bags on the island.
Luca climbed onto a stool to “help.”
Valentina poured herself wine. Didn’t offer me any.
I started.
Eggs.
Guanciale (I’d hunted three delis to find the right cut).
Pecorino.
Pepper.
Luca cracked eggs like a pro, yolk on his chin, giggling.
I wiped it with my thumb.
He grinned up at me with my own eyes.
Valentina watched from the doorway, wine glass halfway to her lips, expression unreadable.
When the pasta hit the pan, the smell filled the entire apartment, salt, pork, home.
Luca clapped. “Smells like Italy!”
Valentina’s voice was soft. “He’s never been.”
I met her eyes. “He will be.”
She didn’t reply.
We ate at the kitchen island because Luca refused the dining table.
He sat between us, legs swinging, sauce on his cheeks.
I cut his spaghetti into tiny pieces.
He fed me a forkful like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Valentina watched every bite.
After dinner, Luca demanded “airplane.”
I spun him around the living room until he shrieked with laughter.
Valentina leaned in the doorway, arms still crossed, but her eyes had softened, just a fraction.
Bath time.
I hesitated at the bathroom door.
Valentina raised a brow. “You wanted in? Get in.”
I rolled up my sleeves.
Luca splashed us both.
I washed his curls while he told me about dinosaurs and “Mama’s big sparkly dresses.”
Valentina sat on the closed toilet lid, filming on her phone, silent.
Bedtime story.
Luca chose a book about a little prince who loses his crown.
I read it in Italian.
He fell asleep halfway through, tiny hand curled around my thumb.
I didn’t move.
Valentina stood in the doorway, backlit.
“You can put him down now.”
I laid him in his bed, tucked the blanket, kissed his forehead.
Then I walked out and closed the door softly.
Valentina was waiting in the hallway, arms no longer crossed.
“You did good,” she said quietly.
High praise.
I exhaled. “May I…?”
She knew what I was asking.
She stepped aside.
I walked to the penthouse like a museum.
Photos everywhere.
Luca’s first steps.
First birthday.
First day of preschool.
Me, missing from every single one.
I stopped at a framed picture on the console: Valentina holding newborn Luca, eyes exhausted, fierce, alone.
I touched the glass.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She came to stand beside me.
“I used to stare at that photo and hate you,” she said. “Then I stopped hating you and just hated myself for still loving you.”
I turned to her.
“I never stopped.”
She looked up. Green eyes glittering.
“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“I mean it with every cell in my body.”
Silence stretched.
Then Luca’s sleepy voice floated down the hall. “Mamaaa…”
She sighed. “Nightmare.”
She started toward his room.
I caught her wrist. Gently this time.
“Let me?”
She searched my face for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
I went to our son.
He was sitting up, tears on his cheeks.
“Bad dream,” he whimpered.
I climbed into the tiny bed, pulled him against my chest.
“I’ve got you, piccolo. Always.”
He was asleep again in thirty seconds.
I stayed anyway.
When I finally emerged, Valentina was on the couch, knees to chest, wine glass empty.
She didn’t look at me.
“You can go,” she said.
I knelt in front of her instead.
“I know I don’t deserve tonight. Or tomorrow. Or any of it.
But I’m not leaving again. Not ever.”
She stared at me for a long time.
Then she reached out, brushed a curl off my forehead, the same way she did with Luca.
“One day at a time, Matteo.
One chance.
That’s all you get.”
I turned my face into her palm.
“It’s enough.”
Outside, Manhattan glittered like a battlefield.
Inside, for the first time in five years, I could breathe.
- Writer
