Page 252 of Lorenzo

“It was absolutely not what you were saying.”

“It was the underlying point.”

“You had no underlying point.”

“I had several.”

“Let me correct myself,” Matteo says. “You had no underlying point that made sense.”

Donna turns to me. “Do they always do this?”

“Since birth.”

“Before birth, I believe,” Mario says from the head of the table. “Somehow neither one has ever developed the ability to understand the other.”

Matteo looks offended. “I understand him perfectly. He’s usually wrong.”

Tomasso mutters something under his breath and reaches for more chicken.

Donna laughs, and I find myself smiling, simply because she is.

I haven’t really brought women around my family before, though I'm certain they weren't ignorant of them. There was always a separation between whatever relationship I was having and the part of my life that belonged to my sons and brothers. I preferred it that way. It kept things uncomplicated.

Nothing about Donna has remained uncomplicated.

She has been in this house less than an hour and has already teased Mario, negotiated feeding rights to her dog with Alessio, inspected two babies, and settled into dinner as if she has been sitting at this table for years.

The remarkable part is that nobody seems to find her presence unusual.

Victoria asks Donna to pass the green beans, and while Donna hands them across the table, Julia asks Alessio whether he intends to spend the entire meal staring at Mocha.

“I’m making sure he’s comfortable.”

“He’s asleep.”

“He could wake up.”

Donna points her fork at him. “Remember our agreement.”

Alessio looks beneath the table, where Mocha has indeed stretched out beside her chair. “I remember.”

“He is twenty-four years old,” I tell her. “You do not actually have to supervise him.”

“I disagree,” Edoardo says dryly.

Alessio looks around the table. “So much for brotherly loyalty.”

“I'll take a bullet for you,” Edoardo replies, “but don't ask me to sacrifice my dignity.”

Alessio gives me the same long-suffering look he perfected when he was about twelve.

For a moment I see the boy in him so clearly that it catches me off guard.

Then he steals a roasted potato from Edoardo’s plate when his brother looks away, and the image disappears.

Dinner continues at the leisurely pace family meals always do. Serving dishes make several trips around the table, empty baskets are replaced, and conversations shift so frequently that I stop trying to follow all of them.

Donna is doing a fair job at following a few of them as well. It also seems she's enjoying the food, as she reaches for the pasta again. It is quite excellent.