When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(78)

“You remember my friend Rosa?”

“Of course. Lovely to see you again.”

Franny turned away. “I’m going upstairs. Bye, Rosa.”

Rosa blew her a kiss as she ran off.

“I should check on the kitchen,” Luca said.

“Hold on,” Mari said, stopping him and Brooke from walking away. “Antonia asked to stay with Rosa. And kindly asked my opinion on the subject.”

Luca looked first to Brooke, who reached out and grasped his hand.

“If she is going to stick around, it might be best for Franny to visit her in a familiar place,” Mari said.

“Not a bad thought,” Brooke said.

Luca sighed, looked at Rosa. “Thank you for consulting with us. If you want her there, it will not offend me. If you don’t . . . it will not offend me.”

Rosa placed a palm to her chest. “Grazie, Luca.”

He turned to Brooke, kissed her lips briefly, touched her cheek, and walked away.

Mari’s heart melted. “Oh, my.”

“Isn’t young love beautiful?” Rosa sighed.



“That jacket looks amazing on you!”

Chloe was working as the hostess, wearing the blazer Brooke had managed to bring home from Texas . . . a gift from the designer.

Brooke sat with Franny at a table toward the back of the restaurant, where they ate dinner and Brooke helped Franny with her homework. When Chloe had a moment, she sat with them. As did Gio, though they were both running, as they often did on busy nights.

Brooke looked over toward the kitchen and every once in a while would catch Luca craning his neck to look at the two of them. It was a rare occasion that Brooke saw Mari in the kitchen with her son.

The two of them spoke in Italian and laughed while they juggled the orders and kept things rolling.

“Do I want to know what this would retail for?”

Brooke shook her head. “No. Just enjoy it. If you knew what it cost, you’d never wear it.”

Chloe pulled at its edges. “I’m going to sleep in it.”

Franny wiggled her nose. “That wouldn’t be comfortable.”

“She’s kidding,” Brooke whispered.

“No, I’m not.”

Brooke and Chloe laughed.

Gio sauntered over, his expression guarded. “Incoming.” He leaned his head toward the front of the restaurant.

Brooke looked up and noticed a long-legged Italian woman wearing a tight skirt and confidence walk up to the bar. She immediately started talking to Sergio and walked behind the counter to place a kiss to both cheeks.

She was stunning.

“Is that—”

“Yes,” Chloe cut her off.

Brooke looked down at her comfortable jeans, light sweater . . . and her hair pulled into a ponytail, and tried to swallow her insecurity.

She failed, but she did try.

Franny was still working, her pencil down in her homework, and hadn’t noticed her mother walk in the door.

Chloe said something to Gio in Italian, and he walked away and back to the kitchen.

Forcing a smile, Brooke nudged Franny. “Franny, look who came to see you.”

Franny followed Brooke’s gaze; an instant smile came to the little girl’s face.

Brooke nodded. “Go say hi.”

With a smile, Franny scrambled out of the booth and ran through the restaurant toward her mother.

One of the waitresses chided her for running.

Not that it halted even one step.

Brooke watched as Franny stopped short of Antonia and had to tap the woman’s arm to get her attention.

Antonia smiled at Franny, continued talking to Sergio, then after a few moments turned to her daughter.

“I really hate that woman,” Chloe said.

“Try not to show it, for Franny’s sake.”

“I am.”

Franny grabbed Antonia’s hand and pulled her toward Brooke.

“Oh, boy.”

Someone from the restaurant staff called Chloe.

“Go,” Brooke encouraged her. “I can handle it.”

“Send up smoke signals if you need help.”

“I will.”

Chloe walked away and Brooke braced herself.

The closer Antonia got, the more her confidence oozed.

Franny bounced into the booth. “Brooke, this is my . . . Antonia.”

If Antonia realized that Franny had refrained from calling her “mother,” she didn’t respond.

The woman was too busy watching Brooke.

Antonia’s condescending smile said more than the first words out of her mouth. “So, you’re Brooke.”

Brooke stepped from the booth and reached out a hand. “Hello, Antonia. I see where Franny gets her beautiful eyes.”

The compliment caught the woman off guard.

“Uhm . . . thank you. Francesca looks so much like I did at her age. I do think she’ll have her father’s height.”

Not that Antonia was short. The woman was a good three inches taller than Brooke.

Or maybe that was the high heels.

Sergio walked up behind them with a glass of wine in his hand. “Your favorite, if I remember.”

Antonia took the wine and gushed in Italian. They went back and forth, locked in conversation, forgetting that Brooke was there and didn’t understand them.