Chapter 7 - The Sunday Dinner
Two months later, winter had settled over New York, covering the brownstones of Brooklyn in a soft blanket of white snow.
The air in the quiet neighborhood near Carroll Gardens smelled of woodsmoke, roasting garlic, and slow-cooked tomato sauce.
Inside Donatella Romano’s historic three-story townhouse, the kitchen was alive with noise, warmth, and light.
Donatella stood beside a massive commercial stove, wearing an embroidered apron, wielding a wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton. Beside her, wearing a simple wool sweater and jeans, was Lucia.
Her hair was tied up in a loose knot, a faint smear of flour on her cheek, as she carefully rolled small pieces of potato dough across a wooden gnocchi board.
“No, no, Lucia, softer!” Donatella instructed in the old valley dialect, laughing as she patted Lucia’s hand. “You are making gnocchi, not cannonballs! The dough must feel like a baby’s earlobe!”
Lucia laughed—a bright, ringing sound that filled the warm kitchen. “Nonna always said if the gnocchi float too fast, you didn't put enough love in the flour!”
“Your nonna was a wise woman,” Donatella agreed, stirring the rich braised short rib ragù bubbling in a heavy cast-iron pot.
In the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of red wine in his hand, stood Lorenzo.
He wore a dark cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up, his expression completely relaxed, his dark eyes locked entirely on Lucia.
Over the past eight weeks, his life had transformed. The cold, relentless corporate executive who used to work fourteen-hour days now found excuses to leave his Midtown office by five o'clock every Friday. The private studio on 57th Street had become his sanctuary, where he would sit on a leather stool for hours, watching Lucia meticulously restore the Ghirlandaio altarpieces, listening to her talk about art history while classical music played softly in the background.
Under her expert hands, the three Renaissance panels were nearly fully restored. The dark grime of the fire was gone, revealing breathtaking gold leaf, delicate faces, and rich, vibrant colors that had drawn the attention of the international art community.
Lorenzo walked into the kitchen, stepping up behind Lucia. He reached around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of her neck.
“You’re getting flour on my sweater,” Lorenzo murmured against her skin, his deep voice sending a familiar, electric thrill through her body.
Lucia leaned back against him, turning her head to look up into his face. “Then you shouldn't stand so close to the cook, Mr. Romano.”
Donatella waved her wooden spoon at her son. “Enzo, out! Go set the table! You are distracting my best student!”
Lorenzo chuckled, pressing another kiss to Lucia’s lips—a slow, deep kiss that left her breathless—before backing out of the kitchen with his glass of wine.
“I’ll set the table,” Lorenzo smiled. “But only if I get the chair beside the restorer.”
At six o'clock, the dining table was laden with platters of steaming gnocchi, rich ragù, fresh crusty bread, and bottles of aged Barolo wine.
Joining them at the table was Marco Rossi—Lucia’s father.
He sat in a comfortable armchair at the head of the table, wearing a clean button-down shirt, looking healthy, strong, and full of life. Thanks to the top-tier cardiac care funded by Lorenzo’s foundation, Marco’s heart function had improved dramatically. He was back in his workshop in Queens three days a week, carving small wooden toys for neighborhood children.
Marco picked up his wine glass, raising it toward Donatella and Lorenzo.
“To family,” Marco said in his gravelly Queens accent, his eyes shiny with deep emotion. “To old tongues, good health, and the man who saved my daughter’s smile.”
Donatella clinked her glass against his. “To family,” she echoed softly.
May you like
Lorenzo reached under the table, finding Lucia’s hand, lacing his fingers securely through hers. He looked across the table at her—at the pale skin, the wide brown eyes, the fierce, beautiful soul that had walked into his life with empty pockets and a silver water pitcher two months ago.
“To the restorer,” Lorenzo murmured, raising his glass to Lucia. “Who found what was whole inside all of us.”
