* * *
Twenty-four hours later, the six of them met at the Moretti home—Haven and Carmine, Celia and Corrado, Tess and Dominic—for a family dinner to honor Vincent’s life. It had been moved from Carmine’s house, since he didn’t even have a dining room table, and Haven and Celia went in together on cooking the meal.
They gathered around, plates piled high with food, and shared laughs as they ate to their hearts content. Dia was the only one missing, having returned to her life in Charlotte. That weighed heavily on Haven’s mind during dinner as she thought about the life waiting for her back in New York. Kelsey had called her dozens of times, but Haven had been too conflicted to return any of those calls.
“This is nice, having us all here,” Celia said. “I tried to get Mom to join us, but she wouldn’t.”
“Meno male,” Corrado muttered.
“Hey, she’s not that horrible.” Celia paused as everyone cast her skeptical looks. “Okay, so she’s a handful. But she’s relied on Vincent a lot the past few years, so the rest of us are going to have to step up now that he’s gone.”
“I hardly know her,” Dominic said.
“Same here,” Carmine replied. “And what little I do know says she doesn’t want shit to do with any of us.”
“Not true,” Celia interjected. “She’s just stubborn.”
Corrado scoffed. “I mean no disrespect, bellissima, but your mother’s issues reach far beyond sheer tenacity. We both know she has a deliberate cruel streak.”
o;I don’t need a candle, Haven. I can handle an onion.”
She smiled but didn’t respond. Carmine took his knife, cutting the ends off of the onion before slicing it down the center. The moment it came apart, the gases hit Carmine and he blinked rapidly as his eyes started to burn.
Every cut seemed to intensify the sting. He squinted, his eyes welling with tears. It got so bad after a few minutes that his vision blurred, and he blinked to clear it, only succeeding in pushing the tears over the edge. He groaned and cut faster, turning his head to the side to brush the tears away with his arm. He lost focus, cutting blindly, and cursed as pain shot through his finger.
He dropped the knife and pulled his hand away in shock, seeing the spot of blood form. It was a small cut, barely anything at all, but the juices from the onion made it burn. He stuck his finger in his mouth as a natural reaction and cringed at the rusty onion taste.
Haven pulled his hands away from his face, frowning. “Are you okay?”
He nodded and she pulled him to the sink, placing his hands under a stream of cold water, washing his cut.
“Look at you, fixing me up,” he said. “When did we change places?”
“When you decided to try to cook.”
Carmine splashed some water on his face before turning off the faucet and grabbed a towel as he leaned back against the counter. He watched Haven as she finished cutting the onion, feeling inadequate when it didn’t seem to affect her. She preheated the oven and worked quickly, throwing together their food with ease.
Once she had it all in the pan, she turned to Carmine with a smile. “When the oven’s ready, can you put the chicken in? I need to go change.”
“Sure.”
He stood there for a minute after she left until a string of beeps sounded through the kitchen. Carmine grabbed the pan and stepped toward the stove, oblivious to the puddle of water on the floor. His foot skidded in it as he slipped, absentmindedly letting go of the pan as he caught himself. He managed to stay on his feet but the pan hit the floor, the chicken and vegetables scattering around the kitchen.
He scrambled, grabbing the ingredients and shoving them back in the pan, as footsteps quickly descended the stairs. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed the chicken just as Haven walked back in.
She gasped, freezing in the doorway as she surveyed the mess.
“Five-second rule?” he suggested, holding the chicken up by its leg.
“When’s the last time the floor was washed?”
“Does this count?” he asked, motioning toward the puddles.
“No.”
“Then, uh . . .” He paused, calculating. “. . . Eleven years ago when my mother lived here.”
She just stared at him, blinking. He dropped the chicken, letting it hit the floor with a splat, and reached into his pocket for his phone. He dialed Celia’s number and waited as it rang. “Yeah, uh, can we reschedule dinner for tomorrow night? Great. Thanks.”