He leans in smiling, brushing my hair behind my ear, to speak quietly.
“They’re arguing over different ways to say ‘love.’”
His warm, minty breath makes me shiver.
“There are different ways to say love?” I ask, intrigued.
He smiles big and leans back in his seat.
“Yes. There’s your basic ‘Ti amo’ or I love you.” He winks at me, knowing I’m aware of that one, since he says it often.
“Mhmm,” I reply, filling up my plate.
He reaches for the wine and pours me a glass.
“Also, ‘Sei tutto per me’ or You are everything to me.”
I smile again; it feels as if he’s saying these to me, not explaining.
“I like that one,” I confess, biting my lip and plating up some noodles for Ella.
“And, one of my personal favorites, ‘Ho un debole per te.’ It means I’m weak for you.”
His eyes fix to mine, and there’s something happening. I can feel it, but I can’t move or look away.
“Yeah?” I breathe out, hearing only my words because the table is silent.
Luca nods and spins his glass on the table. “Sei la mia anima gemella.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, feeling emotional for a reason I don’t understand.
“You’re my soul mate.” The way he says it, I know he’s speaking to my heart.
Tears spring to my eyes as I reply, “Am I?”
Luca stands and takes my hands, lifting me from my seat. “Senza di te la vita non ha più senso. Nei tuoi occhi c’è il cielo. Sei il mio angelo. Sposami, invecchialo con me. Lasciami morire tra le tue braccia, quando siamo vecchi e grigi, perché un momento perso è troppo.”
The smile on my face is ridiculous. I don’t know what he said, but I know I love it.
“In English, Luca.” My voice is trembling.
The tenderness in his eyes breaks me. And then he drops down to one knee, in front of our family.
“Without you, life has no meaning. Heaven is in your eyes. You’re my angel. Marry me, grow old with me. Let me die in your arms when we’re old and gray because a moment apart is too much.”
“Si, amore mio.”Yes, my love.
Three Months after
Charlie’s on First has been decked out to the nines. Elaborate glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and dark red flowers are on every available spot.
I showered my angel with a party set for decadence and celebration because Gretchen was impossible; she refused some big church wedding, saying it would be “over her dead body,” but she caved to having a reception at the restaurant.
Her only request was a Gatsby-themed party, so here I sit, smoking my cigar on the patio, watching my wife in her slinky backless champagne gown dance with our daughter, whom she signed adoption papers for last week, surrounded by more love than I could have imagined.
“Hey, you got another one of those?” Matteo asks, joining me on the patio, followed by my other brothers.
I reach into my pocket and hand a cigar to Matteo.
