The Woman at the Docks (Grassi Framily)

"This is a little intimidating," I admitted. The various conversations were collectively so loud that I wasn't sure how anyone could hear the person standing beside them. Even from inside, you could hear the kids squealing out back in the pool, and there seemed to be a couple on the floor above jumping on a bed. On top of all of that, Frank Sinatra was crooning from a stereo somewhere that I hadn't spotted yet.

"Alright, come on. Let's get you somewhere a little calmer," he invited, throwing an arm around my shoulders, leading me away from Luca.

I really should have known what he was doing.

But I blindly followed him as he led me through

the house, moving toward the back, slamming his hand drastically against a golden push plate on the swinging door, pushing it open, and ushering me into the kitchen.

"You said calmer," I hissed at him, shooting accusatory eyes up at him.

There was nothing calm about this place.

The kitchen.

The heart of the home.

This was pure and utter chaos.

Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

No fewer than eight women bustled around the oversize space—chopping, stirring, gathering items from the refrigerator.

The space itself had unexpectedly high ceilings with one massive ceiling fan spinning around under the skylights. The color was a bright and cheery shade of yellow with all white accents. There were mismatched food-printed hand towels hanging off the handle of the stove, off of one of the cabinet pulls, and out of the waistbands of several of the women.

Six of the eight were middle age or older women—the mothers of all the adults gathered in the front or in the pool out back. Two were younger, around my age, possibly—due to the resemblance, likely Lucky's sisters with their long black hair tied up, big hoops on their ears.

"Ey yo, Ma," Lucky called, making me pull back, a part of me wishing to retreat back to the front of the house, back to Luca.

But Lucky's arm tightened around my shoulders.

And the women were all already turning, seemingly confused by the masculine interruption.

"Now, is that any way to speak to your mother?" the woman at the stove asked, turning, a giant wooden spoon in her hand that she placed on her hip.

Adrian was an average-sized woman dressed in tan slacks and a somewhat loud floral button-up blouse. Her graying hair was pulled back away from her oval face. She was pretty in a soft, understated way, with bright brown eyes and perfectly applied makeup, even after standing over a hot pot.

"Who is this? Did you bring one of your flings into my house?" she asked, waving the spoon at me. "She's pretty, but you know the rules, Luck. Serious girls only."

"She is pretty, isn't she? But she's not mine," he said, wiggling my shoulders. "This gorgeous thing here belongs to Luca."

"Luca?" Adrian asked, beaming, slapping her spoon down on the counter, moving around the crowded island toward us. "Well that is a different story then."

"Why's that a different story?"

"Because Luca would never bring a temporary girl to my house. You? You, on the other hand, don't know the meaning of serious when it comes to women."

"Well, she's got me there," Lucky agreed, dropping his arm, taking a step away.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Getting you that drink. Ma, this is Romina. Romy. And Romy, this is my Ma. Adrian."

With that, he was out the door, leaving me with the women.

"What do you have there?" Adrian asked, motioning toward the bowl in my hands.

"Asada Negro," I told her, letting her take it from my hands. "Shredded beef slow cooked with spices and carrots," I explained.