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“They could have been stolen.”

“By who? Vinny? Donna?” His mouth twitches. “The chef you’ve had working triple shifts all week?”

I glare at him. “You don’t understand the stakes. Mrs. Kowalski brings three different kinds of pierogi to these things. Three. And everyone talks about her pierogi for months. I need at least one thing people remember.”

Domenico tries very hard not to laugh at me as he pushes off the island, and I’ll admit I appreciate the effort. Because this is serious to me.

“I’m sure you’ve out-cooked everyone else.” He takes my hand. “And if not, Vinny or I can remove the competition. Anything for my wife.”

Gasping, I glare at him. “That’s definitely not funny.”

Donna appears in the doorway with her coat already on, her dark hair pulled back in its usual neat bun. “The car’s loaded, Mrs. DeLuca. Vinny’s waiting downstairs.”

“Thank you, Donna.” I grab my bag and my phone. “And for the last time, it’s Kira. Please.”

Donna’s smile is warm and patient and tells me she’ll call me Mrs. DeLuca until one of us dies. Some battles aren’t worth fighting.

The drive to Saint Benedict’s takes longer than usual since I’ve told Vinny to be careful so nothing spills. Donna sits in the front, and Domenico sits beside me in the back with his thigh pressed against mine and his hand resting on my knee.

The contact is casual, unconscious, the kind of touch that happens when you stop thinking about whether you’re allowed to touch someone. It still makes my stomach flip.

We pull up to Saint Benedict’s and it looks exactly the way it should in late October. Pumpkins line the stone steps. Cornstalks are tied to the iron railings.

There are kids everywhere, running between the folding tables set up in the parish hall, shrieking with the particular brand of joy that only comes from being allowed to eat candy before noon. The air smells like cinnamon and apple cider and the faint, musty warmth of a building that’s been holding prayers since before my grandparents were born.

Vinny and Donna start unloading the car before I can even open my door. Domenico watches them with the expression of a man who has never carried his own groceries and isn’t about to start today.

“We have people for this,” he says when I reach for a container.

“I am also a person.” I grab the pasta dish—his favorite—and hug it against my chest. “And these are my people. Let me help my people, Domenico.”

He rolls his eyes but picks up two containers himself, and the sight of Domenico DeLuca in a tailored suit carrying a casserole dish into a church potluck is so absurd I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

The first person to spot me is Mrs. Kowalski herself, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of pierogi that makes my entire culinary effort look like a sad joke. Her face lights up.

“Kira Adams! Where have you been?” She catches herself, eyes darting to the ring on my left hand, then to the large, tattooed man standing behind me with a casserole in each hand.

“It’s Kira DeLuca now,” I say, and the name still feels strange on my tongue, like a sweater I’m still breaking in. “And this is my husband, Domenico.”

Mrs. Kowalski gives him the kind of look usually reserved for stray dogs and politicians. Domenico gives it right back, and something passes between them—some silent, mutual assessment—before she nods once and thrusts the pierogi at me.

“Try one. Tell me if the dough’s too thick.”

The next hour is a blur of familiar faces and the same questions, delivered in slightly different accents: “How’s your mom?” And, with varying degrees of subtlety, “Is that really Domenico DeLuca, and did he really marry you after his son left you at the altar?”

I answer the first two honestly and deflect the third.

Domenico stays close, keeping his hand on the small of my back when the crowd gets too thick. His body creates a space around me that feels less like possession and more like protection, and the difference matters because I like the latter.

Father Joseph finds us by the dessert table. He’s in his clerical shirt with the collar undone, and he looks more like a man running a fall festival than a priest, which is exactly what I’ve always loved about him.

“Kira.” He pulls me into a hug that smells like incense. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

I frown at his tone because he makes it sound like I don’t come here every day. Well, apart from the last week which I’ve mostly spent cooking and organizing.

When he releases me, his eyes find Domenico. The look that passes between them is longer, heavier, loaded with something I can’t quite name.

Domenico extends his hand. “Father.”