Chapter Text
“…for an Italian Catholic family, they’re technically very progressive—by their own metrics,” Sonny said, in the same tone someone might use to warn, “You’re about to be hit by a truck. ” Then his expression softened. “But honestly? It all comes from a good place. Even when it sounds… like it doesn’t.
Rafael smiled, squeezing his hand. “Sonny, please. I’m going to love your family. How can I not? They gave me you.”
Sonny groaned like he was physically in pain. “Please don’t be incredibly romantic when I can’t shove you up against a wall.”
Rafael just laughed. It was hard not to laugh around Sonny, even when nerves were chewing a hole in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was love yet, maybe, but it definitely felt like the beginning of something terrifyingly real. Like the second before a bungee jump, when your toes are on the edge and the cord is tight around your ankles and every cell in your body is screaming why did we sign the waiver?
Not that Rafael had ever gone bungee jumping. He was, as he frequently reminded people, sane. But if he had? He figured it would feel a lot like this.
They reached the door and Sonny paused, fiddling with the keys, looking flustered in the most endearing way possible.
“Oh, heads up,” Sonny said suddenly. “Selene’s autistic and will vocally stim at the dinner table. Do not try and stop her.”
“Why would I try to stop—?”
“And if she asks— wait, no, when she asks— your favourite colour, it’s blue.”
“But it’s khaki?”
“Rafael, I lo… like you. A lot. But if you try to tell that child your favourite colour is the most boring one in the entire visible spectrum, I will strangle you.”
“Okay, but should we really be encouraging lying to children?”
“Should khaki be anyone’s favourite anything?” Sonny tapped at his lip with his keys. “Oh! If you’re talking to Uncle Roy, try to give off a Republican vibe. Just... trust me. But to Aunt Alicia, you’re a lifelong Democrat.”
“What if they’re standing next to each other?”
“Fake a heart attack. Dad’s on his third.” He reached for the doorknob, then paused again. “Speaking of Alicia— she’s psychic. But she only tells you the depressing shit. Just smile and nod when she predicts your debilitating stroke hitting around sixty-two.”
“I’m concerned you said is psychic, not thinks she is psychic—”
“And don’t talk about work.”
“What, no sex crimes at the dinner table? Even if the children ask really insightful follow-up questions? Well, I’ll try, but you’re really dimming my light here, Dominick.”
“Bella and Tommy just got back from Paris,” Sonny said, ignoring him, “and it’s all Bella’s talked about since. If she starts going on about the ‘Arky Do Trumpty’, she means the Arc de Triomphe. There was an incident at the last family dinner—she threatened to excommunicate us all.” Sonny rolled his eyes. “And then Gina was like, oh, like they did with your best friend Napoleo-ony and Bella went after her with a butter knife.”
“Ah— okay?”
“And if Ma asks,” Sonny said, nodding toward the plastic cake container in Rafael’s hands, “I made that.”
Rafael raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I remember. You woke me up at four in the morning to inform me of your bold plan to take credit for a grocery store cake. Then immediately rolled over and went back to sleep. No payoff, no sorry for waking you head or anything.” He glanced down at the container like it might have something to say for itself. “Look, you don’t have to worry. I’ve done this before. Meeting families. It’s going to be fine.”
“Oh? You meet a lot of families, huh? Is that because you're wildly promiscuous or because you emotionally sprint into relationships?”
“...what?”
“Just preparing you for Cousin Vito,” Sonny said. “You failed, by the way. You were supposed to say you’re saving yourself for marriage.”
“Sonny, Sonny, just relax—” Rafael stepped forward and pressed a quick, reassuring kiss to his lips. “It’s going to be—AHH—”
The door opened with a creak and a shove from Sonny, knocking him off balance. He stumbled backwards, windmilling his arms before nearly falling into a thornbush. Sonny winced.
“Hi, Ma,” he said, voice all sweetness as if he hadn’t just sent his boyfriend flying into landscaping.
Serafina stood in the doorway, a dish towel thrown over her shoulder. She glanced at Rafael, now trying to right himself and not swear on his very first impression.
“Oh, he thought I was his nonna,” she said dryly, turning back to Sonny. “I told you she’s getting better. She watched an episode of Frasier and said he and Niles made a nice couple.”
“Aren’t they brothers?”
“Take the win, Sonny.” She turned again and descended the porch steps like a woman on a mission. “Rafael, finally,” she announced grandly, before pulling Rafael into an aggressive double-cheek kiss and wrapping him in a hug that nearly squeezed the air out of his lungs.
Over her shoulder, Rafael sent Sonny a look that could have set dry grass on fire.
“Aren’t you a handsome one,” Serafina said, stepping back to eye him like a prized cut of meat. She rubbed his arms appreciatively, paused, then rubbed again, then gave a very thorough squeeze. “Sonny, he has actual biceps. Gym ones. Can you take off this jacket?”
“Ma, no. ” Sonny lunged forward and physically peeled Rafael out of her grasp. “Don’t be weird.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Carisi,” Rafael said quickly, smoothing his shirt and standing tall, like he hadn't just been groped and evaluated. “Sonny’s told me so much about you. Thank you for having me.”
“Handsome and polite. Leaving Tommy in the dust.”
“I heard that! ” a voice shouted from inside the house.
“Just joking, Bella!” Serafina called back, then immediately turned to Rafael and mouthed: I’m not. She ushered them both in. “Come in, come in. Let’s get that jacket off. Slowly.”
“Ma, stop! ” Sonny said again, dragging Rafael out of reach as they stepped into the house. They slipped off their coats and Serafina gave an approving nod at Rafael’s short-sleeved polo.
“Everyone’s watching the game through there,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the living room where shouts and sports commentary mingled in a blur of volume. “The rest are in the garden.”
As Serafina disappeared into the kitchen, Sonny turned to Rafael and pressed a quick kiss to his nose.
“Sorry for shoving you. I panicked. My nonna’s coming round, but I didn’t want to kill her off—there’s a bet. We think Theresa’s going to be the one to do it. I’ve got a hundred bucks on her.”
Rafael blinked. “You… have a betting pool on your grandmother’s death?”
“Well, when you say it slow like that, with the judgment, it sounds grim. But it’s fun. I swear. Even ma’s in on it. She thinks it’ll be cartel-related.”
“Right. Naturally.” Rafael gave him a long look, then leaned in to kiss his cheek. “I promise not to bend you over the dining table and cost you the family death pool.
They stepped out into the garden, where kids ran barefoot across the lawn, chasing each other with sticky fingers and squeals of laughter. A group of women were clustered under a pergola, chatting and subtly pointing.
It was a warm day. The sun was kind. The chaos was not.
Sonny led him over, arm around his waist.
“This is Rafael,” he said. “Raf, meet my sisters, Theresa, Gina, and my Aunts Alicia and Lily.”
They exchanged quick hellos, before Serafina appeared again, whispering something into Lily’s ear. Both women glanced at Rafael’s arms and giggled. Lily bit her lip.
Rafel was already making a mental note to buy as many polo shirts as he could and to suggest Casual Fridays in the office.
“They are lovely arms,” Alicia said solemnly. “It’ll be such a shame after the… accident.”
Sonny quickly took Rafael by the shoulders and turned him round. “Okay, that’s enough of that. Let’s go meet Nonna.”
Nonna Marchetti was holding court in a plastic lawn chair near a lemon tree. She wore giant, amber-tinted glasses and chewed mints with a slow, rhythmic intensity.
“Nonna, this is Rafael, my… partner.”
She looked up, the chewing never pausing, her gaze magnified to the size of saucers behind those tinted lenses. She said nothing. Just nodded once, a queen granting an audience.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Marchetti,” Rafael offered, polite, smiling, standing like he was about to curtsy.
Still chewing.
From across the garden, a chorus of little voices erupted. “Uncle Sonny!” Children came running, brandishing sticks and foam swords, shrieking about dragons or tag or both.
Sonny turned to Rafael with a helpless look.
Rafael gave him the classic it’s fine, go-go-go wave, complete with a tight-lipped smile that said: I’ve got this. Probably. Maybe.
With one last apologetic glance, Sonny jogged off towards his hooting young audience. Rafael watched him go, caught in that moment of motion, Sonny’s hair bouncing with every step, his laugh carrying across the garden like something sunlit and reckless.
God, he was lovely.
Not in the way that made your heart pound, but in the way that made your whole chest ache. Like watching a favourite film scene play out in real time, unexpected and familiar all at once. There was something in the way Sonny bent to scoop up a toddler with ease, something in how he wore joy without thinking about it, like it was just another one of his hoodies. Rafael felt it settle in his ribs, warm and strange and deeply, utterly permanent.
He shook his head, smiling faintly to himself, then turned back to face the judgment throne of Nonna, trying not to look like a man who’d just been sideswiped by something suspiciously close to forever.
He took a breath, and lowered himself into the empty chair beside her. It sank lower than expected, like way lower, and for a terrifying second he pitched sideways. He flailed, caught himself, and straightened with whatever shred of dignity he could gather, pretending it hadn’t just happened.
Nonna chewed.
“It’s a lovely day for it, isn’t it?” Rafael offered.
“It’s going to rain later,” she said flatly, like a threat.
Rafael blinked and glanced up. The sky was an uninterrupted void, storybook, summer-wedding, no-chance-of-rain blue.
“Oh,” he replied.
“Don’t like it too hot. Too many bugs,” she added, squinting sideways at him with suspicion, as if he might be one of the bugs that snuck past her screen door.
“Oh. Uh, me neither,” Rafael stammered. “I like the fall best. Sweater weather, you know. Leaves.”
That earned him a flicker of approval. Her papery face softened for a half-second before she muttered, “Balmy.”
He nodded solemnly, as if that was a full sentence.
Rafael searched his brain for something, anything, to say to this elderly, recovering homophobe, Italian American matriarch. His entire professional life was built around saying the right thing at the right time. Now? Nothing. Zilch. His brain offered up one useless suggestion on loop: What’s your favourite shape of pasta? Was that xenophobic? Racist adjacent? Infantilising?
Screw it.
“What’s your favouri—”
“I, um, I like that RuPaul’s Drag Race,” Nonna said suddenly, passionately.
Rafael blinked.
She squinted at him, peppermint crunching loudly between her teeth. The silence dragged again, taut as a violin string.
“I like him. That RuPaul.”
There was a silence as she stared.
“Oh,” he said finally, nodding.. “I’ll… tell him?”
Nonna nodded back. “Would you? Thanks.”
She handed him a mint, unwrapped and slightly warm, and turned her attention back to the garden, where Sonny was currently being dogpiled by two sticky, laughing children.
“Lovely boy, Sonny,” she murmured, her voice softening. “Always was. Never gave his mother trouble, not once. Except that time with the hamster, but he was four and trying to baptize it.”
Rafael choked on his mint.
“Used to help his sisters with their homework,” she continued, watching Sonny now with that same fond pride that made her voice go all cottony. “Every Sunday, without anyone asking. Held doors, carried bags. Said thank you to the butcher even when they gave us the wrong salami. Good manners, that boy.” She leaned toward Rafael just slightly. “Once, when he was nine, I tripped over my slippers and twisted my ankle in the garden. You know what he did?”
Rafael shook his head.
“He dragged the patio umbrella over to give me shade, sat beside me for three hours while I iced my foot, and read me Little Women out loud. In voices.” She paused, her lips twitching with a smile. “Did the Beth death scene with tears in his eyes. I was a wreck.”
Rafael looked out at Sonny again, now mid-laugh with a niece on his back and someone tugging his sleeve.
Yeah. Lovely didn’t even begin to cover it.
“I don’t always understand him,” Nonna said, her gaze distant. “But he has my whole heart.”
“That’s wond—”
“When I was young, my paramour was John Gotti,” she cut in, as if continuing the same thought.
Rafael turned to her, blinking at the sudden pivot. “I… that’s very interesting.”
“I stayed close with the Gambino family. Very close.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. Her mint breath hit him like a peppermint air freshener in a car crash. “You’ll treat my grandson right?”
Rafael gave a tight, nervous smile. “Of course.”
“Because if I find out that you don’t. If I find out that you hurt him in any way. I’ll introduce you to some fishes.”
“Uh…”
“Rosie, stop scaring the man,” came a voice from behind. A woman with frosted curls and hoop earrings stepped into view, offering Rafael a firm, warm handshake. “I’m Gia,” she said brightly. “Ignore half of what she says. The other half is just deeply concerning.” She plopped down beside him and crossed her legs, settling in. “Sera told me I’m not allowed to ask who tops.”
Rafael blinked. “...Is this you not asking?”
Gia shook her head, solemnly.“No, no, I’m absolutely not asking.” Then she tilted her head, eyes gleaming with poorly hidden curiosity, and pointed at him. When he didn’t respond, she frowned and pointed out at Sonny and looked back at him with an eyebrow raised. She also looked surprised.
“I—I…” Rafael looked at Nonna for help. She was chewing again. Watching. Unblinking.
“John—John Gotti, that is—once showed me how to kill a man with a coaster,” she added, casually tossing another mint into her mouth. “It’s all in the wrist action.”
“Rosie, for the love of God,” Gia groaned, rubbing her temples. “You did not know John Gotti. Stop telling people that.”
But Nonna just smiled, serene and smug, like the Godfather himself had once kissed her ring and called her bella.
Before Rafael could answer, a small voice piped up in front of him.
“What’s your favourite colour?”
He looked down to find a young girl, maybe five or six, dressed entirely in pink, pink dress, pink socks, pink trainers, with ribbons in her pigtailed hair like perfect little bows on a cupcake. Her green eyes sparkled with a kind of terrifying earnestness.
“Blue,” he said, instantly and confidently.
She beamed. “That’s right! ” she squealed, nodding like a proud gameshow host. “Your favourite colour is blue.
“And yours is…pink?”
She nodded, smiling. “That’s right. My favourite colour is pink! I am wearing pink. You are wearing—” She leant forward and patted at his chest, “— you are wearing blue — ah, no, try again — you are wearing aqua!” She nodded and gave him a thumbs up. “What’s your favourite animal? ”
Ah, shit. Sonny hadn’t prepped him for animals.
“Uh… it’s a cat?” he guessed, weakly.
She laughed so hard she staggered slightly, clutching her belly. “No. You like dogs. ”
Rafael absolutely did fucking not. But if this pink whirlwind handed him a leash with a frothing, snarling Rottweiler at the end, he would accept it readily.
“Right,” he said. “Dogs. Big fan.”
She nodded sagely, her tiny brow furrowed like she was deciding whether or not he could be trusted with state secrets. “What’s your favourite food?”
Oh, come on. Sonny had given him one answer. One! How had he not anticipated a child-shaped inquisition?
“Pizza?” Rafael offered, voice unsure.
There was a pause. She studied him like a seasoned interrogator. Then finally, she smiled again, huge and gap-toothed. “Me too. I like pizza also!”
She turned and skipped off like she’d just run a background check and it came back sparkling.
Okay, so Rafael had an instant favourite. He looked over at Nonna. And an instant source of mortal fear.
“Rafael, is it?” came a voice from behind.
A man who could only be Sonny’s father was standing there: pink from the sun, in a tucked polo and shorts, radiating dad authority. Rafael scrambled up, but the chair had other ideas. He fumbled, awkward, until the man reached out a hand.
“Dominick Carisi Sr.” he said, helping Rafael to his feet. “I was wondering if we could have a quick word—in my office, before dinner.”
Rafael glanced over Sonny, who had paused mid game, concern etched in his brow. And a weird look of excitement.
“Oh, sure! Sure.” Rafael tried a casual wave back to Sonny that didn’t feel casual. “I’d love to, Mr. Carisi.”
“Nicky, please. ‘Mr. Carisi’ was my father.”
“No he wasn’t,” Nonna chimed. “We never did figure out who your father was.”
Nicky sighed without looking at her. “Always a pleasure to have you here, Rosie.”
She gave him a serene smile, clearly pleased.
“Come along, Rafael.”
Rafael followed, nerves kicking up. He looked back at Sonny, who gave him a small, encouraging smile. Rafael returned it, tight-lipped but hopeful.
God, he couldn’t believe how much he wanted Sonny’s family to like him. Or at the very least, not blacklist him. Sonny was big on family—getting their blessing wasn’t just a cherry on top, it felt like the cornerstone.
He wanted this to be going somewhere. Not just dinner. The whole thing.
With a deep breath, he stepped inside.
Nicky closed the office door behind them with a click that felt just a hair too final. Rafael stood awkwardly near a filing cabinet, acutely aware that the “chat before dinner” was, in all likelihood, the shovel talk. The paternal cross-examination. The don’t-hurt-my-kid preemptive strike.
“Listen,” Nicky said, already halfway into a sigh as he lowered himself into his desk chair. “Sorry to pull you in like this. I did this with Sonny’s sisters’ boyfriends too. And he’s been— insisting —I not give you the shotgun talk. Repeatedly. Every day since Tuesday. But in kind of a ‘won’t someone rid me of this troublesome priest’ way, you know?” He opened a desk drawer. “Cuban?”
Rafael blinked. “Cuban-American, yes. My parents—”
“No, no—cigar.” Nicky grinned, holding up a box. “I know you’re Cuban. Sonny mentioned it so much we got concerned it was a fetish. We were strategising how to warn you.”
Rafael barked a laugh despite himself and took one. “I appreciate the intervention.”
“Alright,” Nicky said, exhaling. “So when Sonny asks you what happened in here, son, I’d appreciate it if you could look… a little haunted. Maybe vaguely nauseous?”
Rafael blinked. “I—uh… I can try that, sir.”
Nicky gave a satisfied nod. “Good man.” Then, abruptly: “You’re old.”
“I—well, I wouldn’t say old , I’d—”
“No, no. You’re old. That’s good.” He pointed at him with the cigar. “Usually I get some snot-nosed twenty-something across from me, all clammy and stammering. But you? You’ve got some mileage. Got some weather on you. Do you golf? We could go sometime.”
Rafael would rather be beaten to death with the… golf stick? Club? Bat? Whatever. But if Sonny’s father was extending an olive branch, Rafael was going to grab it—thorns, bees, poison ivy, and all.
“I’d like that, sir.”
“Good? Couch,” Nicky said, gesturing to the worn leather loveseat near the bookcase. Rafael followed. It creaked beneath him.
“Drink?” Nicky asked.
“Yes, please.”
Nicky poured himself two fingers of bourbon and, with a thoughtful squint, slid a can of soda across to Rafael and then paused. “Wait. Shit. You’re old. I forgot. Sorry. Last time I did this was with Mia’s boyfriend—he’s nineteen. He cried.” He looked Rafael up and down, speculative. “Wonder if you’ll cry.”
Rafael’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He reached for the can like it might save him, fingers fumbling just slightly. The tab cracked open with a sharp snap, like a starting gun. He took a sip, hoping it would settle his pulse.
It didn’t.
Nicky exhaled through his nose. “I’m gonna cut through the bullshit, talk to you man to man.” He leaned forward. “You ever seen Too Hot to Handle ?”
“I—excuse me?”
Nicky nodded. “Too Hot to Handle. Netflix reality show? Six seasons. You got Chloe Veitch, Essex’s sweetheart of modern reality television. You don’t know it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.”
Nicky shook his head with a paternal mix of pity and affection and pulled out an iPad. “Magnificent television, Rafael. Just… just magnificent. Now, we’re gonna start season three. I know that might sound counterintuitive to the layman, but—”
“We’re… watching an episode now?”
“They’re only forty minutes a piece, nobody’ll miss us.”
“And when you say ‘reality show,’ you mean…?”
“These beautiful people, Rafael, I tell you—the women and the men, beach bodies every one of ‘em. They show up day one—paradise, clear blue water, white sandy beaches, all of ‘em in bathing suits that just boggle the mind. Sometimes I just don’t know how they keep those things on. Bella had me pick up somethin’ called ‘boob tape’ last minute on her wedding day, for the bridesmaids dresses, you know? I think that might have somethin’ to do with it, but I’m gettin’ off track. Anyway, all these singles show up in paradise, and they think they’re showin’ up to a buffet. But then—hold on, maybe I’m gettin’ a little ahead of myself here. Now Lana is really the one you gotta know. She’s this thing, this… this robot, shaped like a little cone. Seems to just show up anywhere and everywhere, eyes like an eagle, that one. She tells ‘em the rules, real simple rules, only one rule really. No romancin’. I mean, sure, a little footsie under the table won’t kill anybody, a nice firm handshake and the like. But no funny business. Kissin’ and everything up—off limits. And that Lana, she’ll tell on ‘em too. Every damn morning, Lana hits that alarm clock and puts everybody’s business right out there for everybody else to hear. And I bet you’re sittin’ there thinkin’ ‘Nicky, what does anybody care if so-and-so kisses so-and-so?’ Now, that’s the kicker right there. So these folks, they start out with two-hundred-thousand dollars between ‘em. And each time they break the rules, they have to pay the price. Literally. Lana teaches ‘em real quick, announces how much money they lost outta the prize each time somebody gets a little too handsy.”
Rafael blinked. “And… they split the money?”
“Son, I see why you’d think that. Good heart on you, I can tell. Everybody gets their piece of the pie. But that Lana, she’s devious. One of ‘em gets voted off every episode, and the last three get their share. But we’re gettin’ into the weeds, Rafael, you’ll pick it up as you go along. So like I says, we’re startin’ with season three. I’m a traditional man, and if you’d asked me a few years ago, I woulda broken your jaw for talkin’ about startin’ a show at season three. But sometimes… Rafael, if there’s one thing you’ll let this old man teach you, it’s that sometimes you see your shot in life, and you gotta take it. But sometimes, Pops’s gotta help you aim. And this is one of those moments, son. Every day could be your last. You might drive off the Verrazano on the way home if God’s good and ready to take you, who’s to say? Life’s for the livin’, and that means sometimes you just gotta start with season three. Now you might be askin’ yourself, ‘Nicky, what’s so special about season three?’ and I’d understand why you’d ask that. Especially when that Francesca is on season one—she’s a firecracker, that one. But season three, that’s where you’ll meet the real star of the show.” Nicky looked almost reverent now, like a priest entering his favourite part of Mass. “Name’s Patrick, and you’re gonna wanna keep your eye on him. Well, I hardly need to tell you that, you’ll see it yourself..”
“Okay, um… Patrick, I’ll keep an eye out.”
“He’ll catch your eye right away. Big Hawaiian fella, built like a stallion. I mean, he’s just… he’s got it all, Rafael. The muscles, the tattoos, that smile. It’ll knock you dead on your feet. Not much of a singer, but that don’t matter, not when you’ve got that kinda hair. Looks like that new Aquaman, that uh… Jason Mimosa. Whew, my Sera loves that fella, and—if I can shoot straight with you, Rafael—I’m not too far behind her. And if that’s not enough to steal your heart, his personality’ll do you right in. Used to be a real playboy, you know? But that was the old Patrick, see, he’s ready to be a better man, to settle down.
“That’s… I’ve not seen that movie, but he sounds… sounds great. Um… Jason and Patrick. Both sound great.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. Now, let me tell you a little somethin’ to look forward to with our Patrick. So, he’s startin’ to be interested in Lana. Now, Rafael, you might think ‘Oh, is there a lady named Lana? That might be nice, a chance for some name mix-ups, some lighthearted humour,’ but that’s where you’d be mistaken. Patrick’s only got eyes for Lana, the one and only. Singin’ her love songs, and the like.”
“He’s got eyes for… the cone?”
“Boy, he’s got more than eyes for her. In his exit—good Lord above, I really must be losin’ my head at my old age. I nearly gave away the ending. Let me start over. In one of Patrick’s interviews—whew, I tell you what—that is a young man in love with a robot. That monologue about how she’d smile at him if she had a body, would have those eyes that’d look straight through him? Took me right back to when I met my Sera. And you know what, Rafael?” Nicky looked up at him, eyes suddenly very sober. “After you hear that boy's speech, I hope it’ll take you right back to meetin’ my son. If it don’t bring a tear to your eye, then I hope you’ll do us all the favour of just makin’ yourself scarce before he gets too attached. Because my Sonny—he deserves the world.
Rafael swallowed. “I… yes, I’m sure I’ll be moved.”
Nicky patted his leg. “Good. There really ain’t nothin’ like young love. But let me quit my ramblin’ on, this—this is something you gotta see for yourself.”
He tapped play.
The music swelled. And Rafael, somehow, found himself leaning in.