Chapter 11 – THE SUNDAY DINNER
The café closed to the public at 5:00 PM every Sunday.
It was a strict rule Frank had instituted the day he opened Rosa & Frank’s. Sunday evenings were for family, and nothing else.
The long oak table in the back was covered in an absurd amount of food. Steaming bowls of rigatoni, massive platters of chicken parmesan, fresh garlic bread, and a mountain of roasted vegetables.
I sat beside Marco, his hand resting comfortably on my knee under the table. To my left was my mother, looking vibrant and happy, arguing playfully with Uncle Antonio about the proper way to make a marinara sauce.
Across from us, Luca was cutting up a meatball for little Matteo, while the boy babbled enthusiastically about a drawing he had made in school.
And at the head of the table sat Frank Bellini.
He was wearing his best navy-blue jacket. The same one he had worn a year ago at Marco’s disastrous birthday dinner. But tonight, it didn’t look old or sad. It looked like a badge of honor.
Frank picked up his wine glass.
His hand was perfectly, beautifully steady.
He tapped his spoon against the crystal, calling for silence.
The loud, boisterous family quieted down, turning to look at the patriarch.
Frank looked around the table. His pale-blue eyes were shining with unshed tears, but his smile was the brightest thing in the room.
“A year ago,” Frank began, his voice strong and clear, “I thought my life was over. I thought I was losing my mind, and worse, I thought I was losing my son.”
He looked at Marco. “I thought I was going to die in a sterile room, surrounded by strangers who saw me as nothing more than a burden.”
Marco squeezed my hand under the table, his own eyes shining.
“But God had a different plan,” Frank smiled, turning his gaze to me. “He sent an angel in a maid’s uniform to pick up a knife and show a foolish old man that he still had fighting left to do.”
I blushed, looking down at my plate.
“And He brought my brother back,” Frank said, nodding to Antonio. “And my lost boy.” He looked at Luca. “And He gave me a grandson I didn’t know I had.”
Frank raised his glass higher.
“This table used to feel so empty,” Frank whispered, a tear finally slipping down his weathered cheek. “But look at us now. Look at this beautiful, chaotic, perfect family.”
He looked up at the large portrait of Rosa Bellini hanging above the table.
“To Rosa,” Frank toasted. “And to the hands that build a life. May they never be too tired to hold the people we love.”
“To Rosa,” we all echoed, raising our glasses.
The clinking of glass rang out through the warm café.
As we began to eat, passing bowls of pasta and laughing loudly, I looked at the man sitting beside me.
Marco Bellini had walked away from the shadows of his past. He had traded a life of fear for a life of love.
Marco caught me looking at him. He leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.
“What are you smiling about?” he whispered.
I looked down at the diamond necklace resting against my skin, then over at Frank, who was currently sneaking an extra piece of garlic bread onto my mother’s plate.
“I was just thinking,” I smiled, leaning my head against Marco’s shoulder. “I really love burnt toast.”
Marco laughed, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close.
We were home.
And for the first time in my life, I knew nobody was ever going to take that away.
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