Mamma shook her knife in my direction. “Don’t go pretending you have no idea what I’m saying. You’re lucky your grandmother was sleeping and didn’t overhear him. She has enough to worry about while she’s healing. She doesn’t need to stress over devilish men. Fratello Antonio told me all about that young man. From the sound of it, you’ve bewitched him, too. Antonio said he called you his Emilia. You’re no one’s but your own, girl. Don’t ever forget it.”

Sweet goddess above. This was so much worse than Nonna finding out I’d summoned a demon. Heat blossomed across my face and crept down my neck that had nothing to do with the soaring temperatures. My mother thought Wrath and I had been . . .

I might die of mortification.

Even picturing him naked, tugging me to his solid, tattooed body, radiating his infuriating heat as he put his stupid mouth on mine and I gripped him back like he was both my eternal damnation and salvation as we . . .

I needed to stop that train of thought immediately. I wasn’t as disgusted by the image as I’d thought I’d be.

I knew Wrath’s juvenile taunt would come back to sink its nasty fangs into me one day. I just hadn’t quite pictured it occurring like this.

Mamma set her knife down, her expression softening. She completely misread the reason behind my reddening face. “Love or enjoy whoever’s company you want. But you need to be more careful. If your father had answered the door . . .” she trailed off, not having to finish the sentence to drive the point home.

Pummeling the person who was “tumbling” his daughter would be the perfect way to work out some of his own grief. Defending a daughter’s honor was an age-old male pastime. Antiquated human behavior aside, I couldn’t believe Antonio had come to our home.

My attention sought out the little clock for the thousandth time. The afternoon was dragging by. There were hours left until I had to meet Wrath. To give my hands something to do besides fantasize about wrapping themselves around Antonio’s neck, I removed the damp cloth from the mound of dough and began rolling the pasta for the busiate.

I couldn’t believe I ever wanted to kiss that nosy fool.

“Oh, and Emilia?” I paused my assault of the dough and looked at my mother. “Make extra busiate. I promised Antonio you’d bring some over today with your apologies.”

I smiled. I’d happily make extra pasta and dump it all over the troublesome fratello’s head.

“Buon appetito.” I slammed two baskets onto the long wooden table in the dining hall, not bothering to remove the covered trays of food within them. The small gathering of men waiting for their meal went silent. Antonio paused his conversation with another member around his age, concern crinkling his brow.