He argued about some.
You argued back.
Rosa said the two of you fought like old Sicilian grandparents and flirted like teenagers who needed supervision.
Mrs. Patel adored him after he fixed the building’s elevator and claimed it was “routine maintenance.” She did not believe that. No one did.
One night, a year after the restaurant, Emma fell asleep on the couch during a movie. Sandro sat at the other end, his tie loosened, one hand resting near but not touching her blanket.
You watched him from the kitchen.
He looked up.
“What?”
“You’re different with her.”
His face softened.
“She called me giant.”
“That was all it took?”
“No,” he said. “She trusted me to guard the hallway outside her pillow fort.”
You smiled.
“High honor.”
“The highest.”
Later, after Emma was in bed, Sandro found you washing mugs.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
Your hands stilled.
“I hate sentences that start like that.”
He nodded.
“My family has enemies. Fewer than before, but enough. If I stay in your life, there will always be precautions.”
You turned off the water.
“Are you warning me away?”
“I am giving you the truth before asking for anything.”
Your heart thudded.
“Asking for what?”
He stepped closer.
Not too close.
“I love you.”
The words were quiet.
No performance.
No orchestra.
No restaurant full of witnesses.
Just your small kitchen, two mugs, one sleeping child, and a man dangerous enough to destroy people but careful enough to ask permission before touching your hand.
You swallowed.
“That’s not a question.”
His mouth curved.
“No. It is a warning.”
You laughed softly, then pressed your fingers to your eyes.
“I don’t know how to love someone like you.”
“I am not entirely sure how to be loved by someone like you.”
“That is not comforting.”
“I know.”
You looked at him.
“I love you too.”
His face changed like every guarded room inside him had opened at once.
He reached for you slowly.
You let him.
Two years after the night at Stelo, Sandro proposed.
Not in a restaurant.
You had banned dramatic restaurant moments forever.
He proposed in your apartment after Emma’s school recital, while she slept with her ballet shoes on the nightstand.
He gave you a ring that had belonged to his grandmother, a simple oval sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds.
You stared at it.
“Sandro.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “It is too much and also not enough. Rosa said I should not start with a ring bigger than your knuckle because you would accuse me of trying to purchase consent.”
“She was right.”
“I chose restraint.”
