Page 52 of Veil of the Past
I blink, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. “Dad, they just met him last night,” I protest. “Isn’t it a bit early to call him…son-in-law?”
My father’s smile widens just a fraction, but his eyes are serious. “It’s not too early, Alessia,” he replies calmly. “Not for a man who clearly knows what he wants.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Mamma cuts in, her voice softer but no less firm. “Alessia, dear, he is smitten with you,” she says, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “It’s obvious to anyone who looks at him. You’ll be married soon, I’m sure of it.”
I feel a flush of warmth spread across my cheeks, my heart skipping a beat at her words. “Mom, it’s too soon to talk about marriage,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We’re just… we’re just figuring things out.”
She waves her hand dismissively, as if brushing away my words like a pesky fly. “Nonsense,” she says with a laugh. “You’re not getting any younger, and neither is he. If he wants to be part of this family, he’ll have to prove himself sooner or later. Why not start now?”
I shake my head, feeling a knot tighten in my chest. “It’s not that simple,” I insist. “Romiro… he’s complicated. And so is our relationship.”
My father’s smile fades, his expression hardening. “Well, uncomplicate him,” he says, his tone firm. “He needs to show up. I expect him to be there on Sunday.”
There’s a finality in his voice that makes my stomach twist. “Dad,” I begin, trying to keep my tone light, “I can ask him, but I can’t promise he’ll come.”
My father’s eyes narrow slightly, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “This isn’t a request, Alessia,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I expect him to be there. If he’s serious about you, he’ll come. If he’s not… well, then maybe it’s better we know now.”
I feel the words hit me like a punch to the gut, my breath catching in my throat. I glance at Mamma, hoping for some kind of support, but she just nods in agreement, her smile bright but her eyes sharp.
“Romiro will come,” she says confidently, as if it’s already been decided. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I bite my lip, feeling a surge of frustration rise inside me. “You don’t know him, Mom,” I say, my voice edged with irritation. “He’s not like that. He doesn’t just show up because someone tells him to.”
She raises an eyebrow, her smile never wavering. “Then maybe it’s time he learned,” she replies smoothly. “If he’s going to be part of this family, he needs to understand how things work.”
I feel a rush of anger flare up, hot and sharp in my chest. “And what if he doesn’t want to be part of this family?” I snap, my voice louder than I intended.
My father’s eyes narrow, and he leans forward again, his expression stern. “Then he has no business being with you,” he says flatly. “We don’t have time for games, Alessia. We need to know where he stands.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. “Fine,” I say finally, my voice tight. “I’ll ask him. But I’m not promising anything.”
My father nods, satisfied. “That’s all I ask,” he says. “Make sure he understands what’s expected of him.”
I nod, feeling the tension in my shoulders, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I don’t know how I’m going to ask Romiro, or what he’ll say when I do. But I know one thing—I’m not going to let my parents dictate the terms of my relationship.
“Alessia,” Mamma says, her tone softening, “we just want what’s best for you. We want you to be happy.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I know, Mom,” I say quietly. “I know.”
But as I sit there, the grandeur of the room pressing in on me, I can’t help but feel like I’m caught in a battle between two worlds—my family’s world, with its rules and expectations, and the world I’m trying to build with Romiro, which is uncertain and fragile, but real in a way that feels like breathing.
And I don’t know which one will win.
26
ROMIRO
The smell of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee greets us as we step into the diner, the familiar warmth wrapping around me like a well-worn coat. This place hasn’t changed in years, and maybe that’s why I like it. It’s constant, dependable, a small slice of normal in a life that’s anything but.
Alessia slides into our usual booth, her red hair catching the harsh diner lighting just above our heads. She tucks a few stray strands behind her ear and reaches for the menu, even though I know she doesn’t need it. I settle across from her, leaning back against the cracked vinyl seat, my fingers drumming lightly on the tabletop. I know she’s got something on her mind—her smile is too wide, too forced, and there’s a light in her eyes that tells me she’s scheming.
“What?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She glances up, feigning innocence. “What, what?”
I narrow my eyes, smirking. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
