And still the days passed.
The night before the wedding, Primo threw a party in their honor. “I think it was to keep us from stealing away your fiancé and debauching him,” Rafe informed Gianna with a wink.
She laughed. “No bachelor’s party?”
“We might try to sneak him off into a corner and debauch him there. Maybe Primo won’t notice.”
“Doubtful. Primo notices everything and knows everything.”
Though there was one thing he didn’t know. She hadn’t told him about Gabe Moretti, yet. Both she and Constantine had made some subtle inquiries after their return from Seattle. At least, she hoped they’d been subtle. Eventually, they’d discovered that Gabe Moretti was indeed the son of Cara Moretti. And though that fact alone didn’t prove Dominic Dante was his father, the family resemblance suggested that possibility. Possibility? Probability. After discussing it with Constantine a final time, she’d decided to turn the entire matter over to her grandfather.
She found him where she often did, in the kitchen. He’d chased off all his helpers and she knew better than to offer her assistance. In this family, the kitchen was her grandfather’s domain. “So, chiacchierona. Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked, his trademark cigar clamped between his teeth.
She hesitated, driven to answer honestly. “A little.”
Her grandfather sampled his sauce, eyeing her over the steaming ladle. “And what part makes you a little nervous?”
“Constantine and I haven’t known each other very long.”
Primo lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Eh. You have the next sixty years to get to know each other. You have The Inferno, which means your marriage will be passionate, happy and successful. That is all that matters, yes?”
She stared down at the kitchen table and traced one of the gouges her cousin Marco had carved in it years ago. A love scratch, her grandmother had claimed. A nick alongside so many other nicks, all of which helped imbue a piece of furniture with the richness and history of the family who owned it. Gianna smiled sadly. Maybe she wouldn’t be as nervous of tomorrow’s events if she believed that The Inferno was forever, that someday she and Constantine would have a kitchen table that spoke of generations worth of love and use.
She glanced up, on the verge of telling her grandfather about what she’d learned on her thirteenth birthday. But when she looked into those ancient golden eyes, eyes filled with love and understanding and an absolute certainty in the world as he knew it, she couldn’t bring herself to disillusion him.
“Constantine and I met someone in Seattle,” she said instead. “I didn’t know if I should tell you about it. But I think I better.”
Primo turned the flame beneath his sauce to a simmer and snagged a pair of bottles of homemade beer out of the cavernous refrigerator. Popping the tops with practiced ease, he set one in front of her. He took the seat beside her and tapped his bottle against hers. “Cin cin.”
They both drank. “This man…” She didn’t see any easy way to tell him. “He looked just like Sev. And you.”
Primo closed his eyes. “His name?”
“Gabe Moretti. He wasn’t pleased to meet me.” She waited for her grandfather to gather himself before continuing. “Who is he? How is he related to us?”
“I believe he is your Uncle Dominic’s son.”
It confirmed her suspicions. “With the woman he was leaving Aunt Laura for?”
“This is not an appropriate conversation on the eve of your wedding,” Primo said gently. “We will talk of it another time. Thank you for telling me.”
She recognized Primo’s expression. She wouldn’t get any more information out of him. “I’m planning on holding you to that. If Constantine’s going to do business with the man, chances are we’ll meet again—sooner rather than later. I’d rather not be in the dark when we do.”
Primo inclined his head. “You will not mention this to anyone else. Mi hai capito, Gianna Marie?”
She made a face. “Yes, I understand. In fact, I had a feeling you were going to say that.” She stood. “I’ll let Constantine know.”