Fall For My Ex’s Mafia Father

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I watch Kent carefully as he smiles at the memory and then adds pieces of his own, making Natalia laugh- perhaps a little. too hard – when he reminds her that that was the first time he ever had fois gras, and how much he hated it. The conversation: passes mostly like this, with Natalia and Kent and Alessi trading fond memories of their youth, sometimes slipping into Italian to better express their meaning.

And as I look around at the table, watching Daniel laugh along with them in the moments when I cannot understand the words, and catching Natalia watching me when she thinks I’m not looking, I realize that…this dinner could very well be about me. About making it quite clear to me precisely how much I do not fit in this family – the little American girl who has never been to Italy or France, who cannot understand Italian, or cook, and who certainly has never had fois

gras.

And who does not like it when I try it tonight.

As I push my little plate away, a single bite taken out of my pate–and–baguette, I lean over to Daniel to whisper in his ear.

“Daniel, who organized this dinner?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Natalia,” he replies, leaning close to tell me in my ear. “A

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old friend, apparently she organized

this afternoon.”

I turn back to the table better prepared to go to war. Because I’m figuring out that that’s precisely what this is.

War.

that the rest of us don’t really have a chance to change the subject. I do note, as well, that our glasses are liberally resupplied with

meat course is served – a gorgeous roasted game hen for each of us – and each of us are

sparkling curiously, “when do you think it is that you will take a second wife? It is long

still for a second, just a second, and I feel Daniel perk up next to me

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neither Kent nor Daniel bristle at her, which I know they usually would at anyone who dared ask Kent about his

time.

and resting my chin on my hand, flicking my eyes to Kent,