The bell above the door sings as you push into Venetian Vibes, and Roman steps in behind you like he’s entering a combat zone — shoulders tense, eyes flicking from table to table like one might attack. The air is rich with tomatoes, garlic, basil and fresh bread — warmth, history, family. Everything Roman has never once claimed to know how to handle.

Your hand finds his. His fingers twitch like they’re unused to being held publicly — then they settle, lacing with yours.

When he exhales, it’s the smallest surrender.

“Just to be clear,” he mutters, “if anyone throws a meatball I’m taking you hostage and running.”

You nudge him with a smile. “Relax. No one’s throwing anything.”

“People always throw something,” he whispers, but follows you deeper into the belly of home.

And then — you are seen.

Frank Romano emerges from the kitchen with a chef’s towel thrown over one shoulder, voice booming across the room. “Bambina!” He sweeps you into an embrace, peppering your cheeks with kisses before noticing Roman — really noticing — and stilling like a gate dropping shut.

Maria appears next, warm and bustling, Nonna behind her with eyes sharp as knives and mercy in short supply. Giuseppe leans on the counter like a bouncer, Carmen peering over a tray of pastries like she’s already placing bets.

Roman leans in. “There are so many of them. Were they grown in jars?”

You whisper, “Smile. Try not to be… you.”

He attempts something resembling a smile. It looks like pain.

Frank’s stare meets Roman’s. “So. This is him.”

Roman clears his throat. “I… think so? I was last time I checked.”

Silence pools.

Then Nonna steps forward, tiny and ancient and dangerous. She pinches his cheek — hard.

Roman flinches. “Ow—hi? Are we—bonding?”

Nonna nods, satisfied. “Good eyes. Sad boy eyes. He loves deep.”

Maria shoos her back. “Mamma, don’t bruise the guest.”

Frank gestures to a reserved table, bread steaming, wine breathing open. “Sit. Eat. Let us know the man our daughter trusts with her heart… and her future.”

Roman freezes like someone pulled the universe out from beneath him. Future. The word hangs heavy.

But he pulls out your chair first — awkwardly, effortfully — and sits close, knee brushing yours. A tell. A tether.

Giuseppe dives first. “You serious about her?”

Roman swallows. His voice, when it comes, is raw.

“I don’t do serious right. But I want to. I’m trying. And she hasn’t slapped me yet, so I’m calling that progress.”

You nudge his leg beneath the table. He straightens.

Maria softens. Carmen grins. Even Giuseppe’s jaw unbends a fraction.

Nonna only studies him — eyes ancient and startlingly kind — like she sees every fracture and still believes he’ll hold.

Food arrives in waves. Lasagna layered thick, pesto bright as summer, clams steaming in white wine. Roman pretends indifference but keeps stealing bites from your plate, and Giuseppe notices — smirks — passes him more.

Maria fusses over you, sliding extra bread toward your hand. Carmen leans in, showing Roman tiny crocheted booties she’s already made — pale yellow, soft as a sigh. Roman touches them with the gentleness he never shows in boardrooms.

Your father watches — weighing, measuring — while Nonna murmurs to Roman in Italian about strong babies, stubborn mothers, and men who learn late but love hard.

Roman listens. Really listens.

The restaurant glows warmer by the minute — laughter softening edges, wine smoothing nerves, forks clinking like a heartbeat.

And then Frank pours more wine, eyes going father-sharp again.

“So, Roman,” he says, leaning forward slowly, deliberately. “Tell me — what kind of husband and father do you think you’ll be?”

Roman stills. Glass halfway to his lips. Words caught like birds in his throat.

Your whole family waits.