Chapter 37 Sara

Sunday dinners at Abuela’s always felt like stepping into a different world, one where the air smelled like simmering tomatoes and fresh bread, where laughter bounced off the walls, and where love was loud, messy, and everywhere. Tonight was no different. My aunts were already arguing over seasoning when we walked in. My uncles were teasing Gabe about how much he’d grown. Abuela hugged Salvatore so hard he actually winced, and then she kissed both his cheeks like he was her long‑lost grandson.

And Salvatore… he took it all in stride. He smiled, he helped carry dishes, he listened to my uncles’ stories, he let Gabe drag him around the backyard to show him the garden. He fit. Too well.

Dinner was loud and warm and full of the kind of joy I hadn’t felt in years. My family adored him. Even the skeptical ones, the ones who remembered how badly I’d cried after college, were softening. But I kept reminding myself: This wasn’t real. Not forever. Not once Juan was dealt with. This marriage was protection. A shield. A show of force. Nothing more.

After dinner, the men drifted outside to talk about cars, which really meant Salvatore showing off pictures of his collection while my uncles pretended not to be impressed. Gabe followed them, bouncing between them like a happy little shadow.

I stayed inside with Abuela and my aunts, helping clear the table and wash dishes. The kitchen was warm, the windows fogged from the steam, and the sound of the men laughing outside drifted in through the screen door.

Abuela handed me a towel to dry a plate. “Mija,” she said softly, “that man loves you.”

I nearly dropped the plate. “Abuela, no. It’s not like that.”

My Aunt Lucía snorted. “Please. The way he looks at you? I’ve seen telenovela men less dramatic.”

My other aunt nodded. “And the way he looks at Gabe? That’s a father.”

I shook my head, heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s all for protection. Once Juan is gone, this marriage ends. He said so. I said so.”

Abuela turned to me fully, her eyes sharp in that way that always made me feel twelve again. “You think he holds you every night because of protection?” I froze. My aunts exchanged knowing looks. Abuela stepped closer, cupping my cheek. “You think he rushes home for dinner because of protection? You think he watches you like you hung the moon because of protection?”

I swallowed hard. “Abuela… it’s complicated.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s simple. You are scared. And he is patient.”

My chest tightened. My Aunt Elena dried her hands and leaned against the counter. “Mija, we’re not blind. We see a man in love. And we see a woman pretending she doesn’t feel the same.” I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.

Abuela tapped my chin gently. “Drop the walls, Sara. Try a real marriage. Not for protection. For happiness.”

I looked out the window. Salvatore was outside, laughing at something Gabe said, his head thrown back, the evening sun catching in his hair. My uncles stood around him like he’d always been part of the family. And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine it. A real marriage. A real family. A real future. My heart ached with how much I wanted it. But wanting and believing were two different things. I turned back to the sink, gripping the towel a little too tightly. “I don’t know if I can,” I whispered.

Abuela kissed my forehead. “Then let him show you that you can.”

but in a clean, concise form.

The car ride home was quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that follows a good meal. Gabe fell asleep almost instantly, his head tipped against the window. I watched him for a moment before Salvatore spoke.

“There’s a charity gala on Friday,” he said. “I want you there with me.”

“Me?” I asked.

“You’re my wife. You belong at my side.”

My heart did something I didn’t want to examine. “What about Gabe?”

Half-asleep, Gabe mumbled from the back, “I’m staying with Uncle Rafa this weekend. We’ll make pizza. I’ll see you Sunday.”

That settled that.

Salvatore continued, “Roc will take you dress shopping. No limit.”

I blinked. “No limit?”

“You’re representing the Ricci family.”

I hesitated, then smiled. “If Roc’s going with me, I’ll ask Marco to meet us. He has great taste. And I’ll get him a ticket to the gala. As a thank‑you.”

Salvatore’s mouth curved knowingly. “You’re matchmaking.”

“I’m helping.”

He chuckled. “I’ll make sure Marco gets an invitation.”

I looked out the window, warmth settling in my chest. “Roc deserves something good.”

Salvatore glanced at me, softer. “So do you.”