HIS FORBIDDEN BRIDE

CHAPTER 14

Sunday came too fast.

"Luca, stop pacing," I said for the third time that morning. "You're going to make a hole in the floor."

"I am not pacing," Luca said, pacing from our closet to the window. "I am thinking."

"You're thinking very loudly with your feet."

He was wearing a simple black sweater and dark pants — no suit, no watch that cost more than my father's house. I had told him, "My father will be uncomfortable if you look like a mafia boss. Please look like my husband."

So he tried. He still looked like a mafia boss who was trying not to look like a mafia boss.

"Does he like me?" he asked suddenly.

I stopped folding the blanket and stared at him. "What?"

"Your father. Does he like me?"

"Luca Romano, you run half the city and you are nervous about meeting my father for soup?"

"He beat me at chess on the phone," he muttered. "He said, 'You think too much, boy.' No one calls me boy."

I burst out laughing. "Oh my God. You are scared of my papa."

"I am not scared," he said, crossing his arms. "I am... respectful. He is your father. He is important."

I walked over to him, stood on my tiptoes, and fixed his collar that didn't need fixing.

"He loves you already," I whispered. "Because every week his doctor comes and says, 'Luca sent me.' Because his fridge is always full now. Because his daughter is not crying anymore when she calls him."

Luca's eyes softened. He put his hands on my waist, pulling me a little closer.

"And you?" he asked, his voice low. "Do you love me already, Lila Romano?"

My cheeks went hot. Even after a month of marriage, he could still make me blush with just a look.

"Don't do that," I mumbled.

"Do what?"

"That voice. That low voice. My father is waiting downstairs, Luca."

"I'm just asking a question," he said, innocent, but his hands slid a little lower on my waist and his thumb traced a small circle over my sweater. Right where my skin was.

"Luca..."

"Hmm?"

"We will be late."

"We have time," he whispered, leaning down, his forehead touching mine. His cologne was soft today. Not the strong one he wears for business. The soft one I like. "One minute. Just one minute where it's just us before we have to share you with your father."

He kissed me then. Not the proud, hard kiss from the driveway. A slow, soft one. Like he had all the time in the world. His one hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.

I melted. I always melted.

When he pulled back, I was breathless.

"Okay," I said quickly. "Okay, now we really have to go, or Maria will come and drag us down herself."

He grinned. "She likes you more than me now. She told me this morning, 'Don't annoy Lila before her father's visit.'"

"As she should."

He took my hand, laced our fingers, and we went downstairs.

My father was already in the living room.

He was wearing his best shirt — the blue one with a small tear on the cuff that he always tries to hide. His knee was propped up on a stool Maria had ordered for him. And in front of him — a chessboard.

Maria was sitting across from him, frowning at the pieces.

"Joseph, you cheated," she said.

"I did not cheat! You moved your queen wrong! That's illegal!"

"I did not! You are confusing me on purpose!"

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Luca stopped too.

My father and Maria — arguing about chess like old friends.

"Maria," Luca said, surprised. "You play chess?"

"No," she said. "He is teaching me. And he is a terrible teacher."

"He's a great teacher," my father argued. "You are a terrible student!"

Then he saw me.

"Lila! My pumpkin!"

He tried to stand, wincing at his knee. I ran to him and hugged him tight. He smelled like home. Like pepper and old books.

"Papa, you came early."

"Of course early. Your husband sent a car that is bigger than my house. I thought I should not keep the big car waiting."

Luca walked over, looking nervous again. He held out his hand. "Sir."

My father looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then at me hugging his arm.

Then he did something no one expected.

He pulled Luca into a hug.

Luca froze. Completely frozen. Like someone had pressed pause on a mafia boss.

My father patted his back hard. "Good boy. You kept my daughter safe. I heard about that Sophia girl. My daughter told me on the phone you stood behind her like a wall. Good. That's how a husband should stand."

Luca, still stiff, looked at me over my father's shoulder with wide eyes that said HELP.

I mouthed, "Hug him back."

Slowly, awkwardly, Luca hugged him back. One pat.

Maria was watching, hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh.

My father let go and held Luca at arm's length. "You lost weight. Does my daughter not feed you?"

"She— she does, sir," Luca said.

"Good. Because now I made soup. And you will eat two bowls. Otherwise I will think you don't like my cooking."

"I will eat three," Luca said seriously.

My father beamed. "I like him. He learns fast."

We all went to the dining room. Ms. DeLuca had set a small table — not the big formal one for board dinners — a small round one near the kitchen window. Just four people. Family.

My father's soup was simple. Vegetables, pepper, a little chicken. Not like the chef's fancy food. But Luca took a spoonful and his eyes closed.

"This is..." he said.

"Too much pepper?" my father asked worried.

"No," Luca said quietly. "It tastes like... home. Like what my father used to make before we had chefs."

The table went quiet.

I reached under the table and found Luca's hand. Squeezed it.

He squeezed back, his thumb rubbing my knuckle under the table where no one could see.

Maria tasted it too. "Joseph, you have to give me this recipe. I will pay you."

"You don't pay for family recipe!" my father said, scandalized. "You just come and I teach you! For free!"

After soup, my father challenged Luca to chess.

"This will be quick," Maria whispered to me.

It was not quick.

Luca thinks ten moves ahead. My father plays by gut and talks loudly while playing.

"Ah! You moved there! You fell into my trap! I learned this trap in 1985!"

"Papa, that's not a trap, you just left your bishop—"

"Shhh! Don't help him! Let him think!"

Luca was frowning at the board, completely focused, while my father kept eating cookies and talking.

I sat next to Luca, my chair close to his, my head leaning on his shoulder, watching.

"You should move the horse," I whispered to Luca.

"It's called a knight," he whispered back, but smiling.

"Move the horse, Luca."

He moved the knight. My father gasped.

"Oh! Your wife is smarter than you! Good! You married a smart girl!"

Luca looked at me, his eyes warm and amused. "I did," he said softly, just for me. "I married the smartest girl."

Under the table, his hand found my knee, squeezed gently.

"Focus on chess, Mr. Romano," I whispered, blushing.

"I am focused," he whispered back, leaning a little closer so his lips almost brushed my ear. "On my wife who thinks knights are horses."

My father won.

Luca stared at the board. "How..."

"Gut!" my father said triumphantly. "You think too much, boy! Sometimes you just have to move!"

Maria clapped. "Finally someone beats him!"

Luca leaned back in his chair, defeated but laughing. Really laughing. Not his quiet mafia laugh. A real, loud laugh.

My father looked at me then, his eyes a little wet.

"He's good, pumpkin," he said quietly, while Luca and Maria argued about whether that last move was legal. "He looks at you like you hung the moon. Like you are the whole sky."

I looked at Luca — his sweater, his laugh, his hand still holding mine under the table.

"I know, Papa," I whispered. "He does."

Later, when the sun was low, my father had to go home. Luca helped him to the car, carrying his empty soup pot like it was gold.

When the car left, Luca came back inside and found me in the kitchen, washing the pot.

He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, rested his chin on my shoulder.

"Your father likes me," he said, satisfied.

"He loves you," I said. "You ate three bowls."

"I would have eaten four."

I laughed and turned around in his arms. "Thank you for today."

"Thank you for giving me a family Sunday," he said. His voice was soft again. That soft voice that made my knees weak. "I haven't had one of those since... a long time."

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering.

"We should do this every Sunday," I said.

"Every Sunday," he agreed. Then, lower, "But now... everyone is gone. The house is quiet. And you are still in this kitchen wearing my favorite sweater..."

"Luca..."

"Mrs. Romano, are you busy?" he asked, his mouth close to my ear, his hands tight on my waist.

"Very busy," I said, pretending to be serious, but smiling.

"Too busy for your husband?"

I pretended to think. "Maybe... maybe five minutes not busy."

"Five minutes is enough," he whispered, and kissed me again, slow and unhurried, in the warm kitchen that smelled like my father's soup, while outside the house was finally, completely quiet and ours.