Chapter 13

The smell of garlic and roasted vegetables hits me as soon as I open the door, cutting through the cold night air. Before I even get my boots off, my mom's voice carries through the house.

"Is that you, Cate? You're late!"

"Hi, Mom!" I call out, shrugging off my coat. "Traffic was insane."

"You live ten minutes away!" she shouts back, and I roll my eyes, smiling.

The dining table is already a mess of appetisers platters of cheese, olives, and bread, all in that slightly chaotic setup that feels like home. My aunt Silvia is standing by the table, sneaking slices of salami while my uncle swats at her hand, grumbling about saving some for the actual dinner.

"Caterina!" my cousin Luca calls from the couch. He's scrolling on his phone, barely looking up. His wife Francesca, meanwhile, is chasing after their toddler, who's having a meltdown over wearing socks.

"Come here!" My grandma is seated at the table already, a cane propped up next to her. She looks at me like I haven't been home in years, even though it's been a week.

I bend down to kiss her cheek. "Hi, Grandma. How are you?"

"Old," she says with a shrug, pulling me closer. "And you? Have you been eating? You look tired."

"She's always tired," my mom chimes in, walking into the room with a bowl of salad. "That job of hers takes too much out of her."

"Nice to see you too, Mom," I mutter, earning a laugh from my aunt Silvia.

Before I can even sit, my mom points to the kitchen. "Go wash your hands and help with the pasta. Everyone's starving, and your uncle won't stop complaining."

"I just said the breadsticks are stale!" my uncle protests, holding up an empty wine glass.

"You're stale," Silvia shoots back, already pouring him more wine.

It's chaos in the way only our family can pull off, loud and loving all at once.

The dining table is packed with food seafood, pasta, roasted vegetables. My nephews are arguing about who got the bigger serving of lasagna while Grandma critiques Francesca's parenting in the most passive-aggressive way possible.

"Back in my day, we didn't let kids scream at the table," she says, waving her fork.

"Back in your day, kids didn't have socks," Luca mutters under his breath, earning a glare from his wife.

I can't help but laugh as I reach for more salad, trying to tune out the chaos.

"So," my mom says, turning to me, "how's work?"

I freeze for a second, not expecting the question. "Uh, fine. Busy."

"Busy?" Grandma says, raising an eyebrow. "She's a prison guard. How busy can it be? What, are they planning an escape?"

The table erupts into laughter, and I force a smile. "It's not like the movies, Grandma."

"Good thing," she says. "You'd never make it in a movie. Too serious."

By the time the tiramisu and coffee hit the table, the mood is lighter. Aunt Silvia is on her third glass of wine, gesturing wildly as she talks about her neighbors back in Baltimore.

"I swear, it's like living in a soap opera," she says, shaking her head. "Caterina, you probably don't even remember when you used to visit me there, do you? You were so little."

"Not really," I admit, taking a bite of tiramisu. "I was what, four?"

"Four or five," she says, waving her hand. "Your dad used to bring you and your mom down in the summers. You'd run around with the other kids while the adults sat around and gossiped."

I smile faintly. "Sounds nice."

"Oh, it was," Silvia says. "Until someone's husband started sneaking around with someone else's wife."

"Silvia," my mom warns, but she just laughs.

"It's true!" she says, pouring herself another glass of wine. "You don't find drama like that around here. Baltimore had character."

" Baltimore had nosy neighbors," my mom mutters, rolling her eyes.

The room bursts into laughter again, but I stay quiet, my mind wandering as I watch the candlelight flicker against the glasses on the table.

As the laughter dies down, Aunt Silvia leans back in her chair, swirling her wine glass with a smirk on her face.

"You know, it's funny," she says, looking around the table. "Whenever I think of Maryland, I think about all those summer nights at the community events. The food, the music, all the kids running around like maniacs." She looks at me. "You were one of them, you know. Always barefoot, always covered in dirt by the end of the night."

"Sounds about right," I say, smirking as I sip my coffee.

"But seriously," Silvia continues, her tone more wistful now, "it was a good time. A real community, you know? Everyone knew everyone's business whether they wanted to or not."

"Sounds exhausting," Francesca says, bouncing her toddler on her knee.

"Oh, it was," Silvia says, grinning. "But it was also comforting. Like, if something happened, someone always had your back."

"Like a neighborhood watch?" Luca jokes, earning another laugh from the table.

"Kind of, yeah," Silvia says. Then she hesitates, her expression flickering with something I can't quite place.

"What?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugs, brushing it off. "Nothing, really. Just... you'd be surprised how much you forget about people, you know? Faces, names. And then one day, something triggers a memory, and it's like... oh, yeah. That person."

"Are you getting sentimental, Silvia?" my mom teases, her tone light but curious.

"Maybe," Silvia says, laughing softly. "Or maybe it's the wine." She takes a sip and waves it off.

The conversation shifts again, veering into stories about my cousins' misadventures growing up. My grandma reminisces about how Luca once got his head stuck in a staircase railing, which Francesca finds far too entertaining.

I laugh along with everyone, but something about Aunt Silvia's comment lingers in my mind.

Later that night,

The house has quieted down. The dishes are done, the wine bottles are empty, and everyone's either heading to bed or settling in to watch TV. I'm sitting by the window in the living room, staring out at the snowy street below, when Aunt Silvia walks in with a blanket draped over her shoulders.

"You're not going to sleep?" she asks, sitting down across from me.

"Not yet," I say, shrugging. "Too much coffee."

She nods, pulling the blanket tighter. For a moment, there's silence between us, the only sound coming from the faint hum of the heater.

"You know," she says finally, her voice low, "I wasn't lying earlier. About memories coming back."

I look at her, waiting for her to continue.

"When I saw you on TV..." she starts, trailing off as if searching for the right words. "I mean, of course, I recognized you. You're my niece. But there was something else. That name, Mangione. It kept bothering me, like I'd heard it before. And then I remembered."

"Remembered what?" I ask, my heart suddenly beating faster.

She hesitates, her expression unreadable. "The Baltimore community," she says finally. "The Mangione family was part of it. I didn't know them well, but they were around. Nice enough people, as far as I could tell. Always kept to themselves, though."

I stare at her, my mind racing.

"And then I thought about you," she continues, her voice softer now. "You were just a little kid back then, but you used to play with their son. I think his name was Luigi."

The name feels like a punch to the stomach, even though I was expecting it. I force myself to keep my face neutral, nodding as if it's just another piece of family trivia.

"Small world, huh?" she says, giving me a faint smile.

"Yeah," I say, my voice tight. "Small world."

Silvia doesn't press further, and after a few minutes of quiet, she heads to bed. I stay by the window, my thoughts spinning.

I'm just staring at the snow-covered street. What are the chances that out of all the prisons, all the guards, all the people in the world... it had to be me.

And how can I not remember of him?