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Post by Adalina Stregoni on Jun 12, 2012 12:39:14 GMT -5
"E 'solo la cena, nipote," (It's only dinner, granddaughter) Nonna spoke, her voice holding years of wisdom behind it as she sat in a chair by the island in the kitchen, watching her granddaughter bustle around the stove and oven, counter and fridge in an outfit she shouldn't be cooking in as always. While the grandmother wore a simple, pale blue summer dress that reached her ankles with white flats (and with her body at her age she could totally pull it off), the forty something year old mother and wife was clad in a loud, floral print bustier, a high waist white pencil skirt that ended right above the knee, platform sandals that made her look taller than she already was, and red pepper chandelier earrings in each ear. Her hair was swept up whimsically into a loose bun on the back of her head and she had her signature cat eye black eyeliner on that made her bright blue orbs stand out. Of course, she wore Nonna's apron that used to be her mother's before her. It was a faded white, a bit tattered yet soft from being washed so much, with lace trim and tomatoes printed all over it in an aloof brick red, also faded with age. But as she moved around the kitchen with ease, she easily dumped the pasta in the strainer and rolled her feline orbs at the old woman.
"Lo so, lo so," (I know, I know) she responded quietly with a playful smile forming on her full lips, "Ma questo è il vostro piatto preferito, no? Perché non renderla bella?" (But it is your favorite, no? So why not make it beautiful?) she glanced over her thin shoulder and winked at her grandmother, putting the strainer in the dish washer after the pasta was set in a large bowl. Then, she went over to the oven, grabbed a mitten, and slipped it on her dainty hand before pulling out the a rack of crispy, baked chicken breast. They were golden and still sizzling as she put them on a cooling rack on the counter as her other, free hand stirred the homemade, red-wine fortified marinara sauce. Seeing that the sauce was boiling, she turned it off, slipped off her oven mitten, and went over to the fridge to retrieve a container of fresh prosciutto and another container with fresh basil. She held the two in one hand while the other reached for the olive oil in the tin container on the counter, "Vuoi dire preferito di tuo marito?" (Don't you mean your husband's favorite?) the old woman scoffed as she made the side comment and brunette laughed, "Si, Vincenzo's," (Yes, Vincenzo's) she rolled her eyes again. She could never get away with anything with that woman but she loved her to death even if she was almost one hundred years old and still one hell of a strong woman. It sometimes made Adalina wonder if she would be able to grow to be as hold as her, get to see her grand children and great grand children. Hell, she might even be able to see her great great grand children if she could convince Marco to find a wife.
On the island counter in front of Nonna sat four round, deep plates with flat edges. Grabbing the pasta and an elongated fork, she twirled some into a scoop and placed it neatly in the center of each. Then, she grabbed a spoon and spilled some of the sauce onto it, placing a chicken breast just so leaning against the delicate hill of pasta, and added more sauce, a tiny sprinkle of olive oil, and then a slice of prosciutto and mozzarella, which started to melt gently with the heat. A tiny teaspoon of sauce on top, sprinkle in some pre-cut basil, and each dish sat nicely next to the other. Taking a deep breathe, she stepped back and put her hands on her hips to admire her work, "Si rendono così bella e poi è rovinato. Non capisco la tua ossessione," (You make it so beautiful and then they ruin it. I do not understand your obsession.) Nonna scrunched up her nose making the wrinkles in her face more prominent. Her thick, white hair was in a long braid down her back, one Adalina did for her every morning. The woman smiled, though, and Lina smiled back before laughing at how serious her face was, "Vieni, Nonna, i ragazzi sarà presto a casa," (Come, grandmother, the boys will be home soon). Though Marco lived in his own loft, Adalina still invited him, every single evening, for dinner because, well, she was his mother and she damn well had a right to drag her son by the ear to eat her food. So maybe she didn't ask but really commanded he come over because she missed him and Nonna missed him. Of course, she'd commanded him in that typical passive aggressive way of hers she used whenever she wanted to get her way with something.
Grabbing the four plates so they balanced on her thin, lean arms, she went into the dinning room and set the plates in their places. The dinning room table was long but they normally only sat on one end. Vincenzo was always at the head, Lina at his right, and Nonna at his left should Marco not be there. If he was, Nonna was normally right next to Lina. She set the pasta, the sauce, and the chicken in decorative serving plates between all of them on burners set low so they could stay warm. The basil, mozzarella, and prosciutto sat in separate, smaller dishes around them. Once the silverware was set up as well as the tall glasses of wine set out, the entire table looked like it was right out of an Italian Living magazine or Martha Stewart guide book. Really, her Nonna taught her how to set the table and like always, the old woman took her seat just as she heard the front door, not too far from them open and close, "Bentornato a casa, l'amore!" (Welcome home, love!) she called out as she walked through the dinning room, through the first living room, and reached the foyer where she found Vincenzo. Without thinking twice, she wrapped her arms around his neck with a smile on her face, leaning in and giving him a deep kiss as if she hadn't seen him in ages when really, she'd seen him just this morning. All day, though, she'd been running around the house, trying to keep Nonna from being too hard on the maids. Truthfully, Adalina could use their help and she didn't want them resenting her. But there were just certain areas that remained as Adalina's domain: the kitchen, her studio, and her office. She cleaned those herself and preferred to cook the meals herself but she couldn't always do it. Tonight, she was letting the maids take care of the cleaning since she'd cooked and was still winded from having to go to all those silly meeting over some advertisement that had to be pulled, "Com'è stata la tua giornata?" (How was your day?) she asked as she pulled away, taking off her apron in the process as she headed back over to the dinning room, "E avete sentito da Marco? Sono sicuro che non vuole mangiare la sua cena fredda." (And have you heard from Marco? I am sure he doesn't want to eat his dinner cold.)
She left the apron on a chair next to the island, the one Nonna had been sitting in, and then headed back into the dinning room, glancing over at Vincenzo as she waited patiently for a reply.
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Post by Vincenzo Stregoni on Jun 15, 2012 15:19:12 GMT -5
[style=padding-top:5px;]  T he sun was setting, the colors of blue, indigo, and orange were brilliant in the sky above but the flash of brilliant light lasted only momentarily as it slowly dulled and disappeared, letting the darkness of the night take over. With the sun setting to the west, anyone who was traveling at that direction would experience the glare of the sun’s rays.
In the streets of Brighton Heights, there was one such car traveling in that direction.
Brighton Heights. Home to the rich, famous, and influential. The streets were wide enough, and with the so little inhabitants with respect to the massive area, the streets were practically empty, a lot of space for their luxurious sportscars to maneuver in.
The car in question was a four door Ferrari. With the glossy, off-white paint job, whenever the sun’s rays hit it, it would look as if the car was gleaming.
Inside the car, at the back of the car, passenger side, sat a man. Italian, late-forties, suave, debonair, dressed in a light-gray suit with an off-white button-down long sleeved shirt with the first button at the top unbuttoned. He had a brown leather belt and brown leather shoes and by sitting down the hem of the pants was raised slightly revealing a gray and black stripped pair of socks.
The man was Vincenzo Leonardo Stregoni, Don of the Stregoni Mafia. But that was a title he used in his professional life. Now was not the time for that, now it was a time to be a loving husband and a compassionate father.
But still, he was tired from the day. There were a lot of things that he needed to take care of. With enemies all around him, shaky alliances as fragile as thin sheets of glass and a business enterprise that was based on tourism and sales. Yes, there were a lot of things that he needed to take care of but he was happy that at the end of the day, he had a home to go to.
Adalina, how he missed her. How he missed her smooth skin in his hands whenever he caressed her. Those full lips whenever he kissed her. Her soft voice whispering in his ear. He laid his head back at the seat and closed his eyes.
Vincenzo, a voice said in his head. Vincenzo didn’t even open his eyes. After all those years, he was used to the Lares’ touch in his mind and he should, the Lares had been his guardian and guide since he was born. You seem more tired than usual. Were the contractors less agreeable in your plan? The Lares asked. The Lares had multiple powers, one of them being to slip in and out of the astral plane. Valentino was Vincenzo’s Lares and the current whereabouts of him was in the astral plane, hence from an outsider’s point of view, the only people in the Ferrari would be Vincenzo and the driver.
Vincenzo took a deep breath before replying to the Lares. They’ll get around, we just need to create enough problems for them to start running to us, he said. Yes, a few more “unfortunate incidents” then the contractors would be running to them for salvation, without knowing that the Stregoni were the cause of their problems to begin with.
But that’s a problem we’ll have to deal with tomorrow. Right now, I have dinner with family. Vincenzo added. The Lares kept silent after that. For Vincenzo, with all the chaos that he had to deal with every day, there were a few simple rules that he had to keep him from going out of track. The first rule of that short list? Always have dinner with family.
It wasn’t long before the Ferrari was in the Stregoni estate. It was a huge building, its architecture was clearly inspired by the old Renaissance Italian mansions, the house had a Pompeiian-brick facade and barrel-tile roo.. As he got off the car, he looked at his reflection. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to fix it although for a normal person his hair was already good as it is. He ran his hand, though his suit, trying to flatten out whatever creases on his suit.
Vincenzo entered through the foyer, trying to enter the enter the estate as silently as he could. He wanted to surprise Adalina of his return. But suddenly Adalina’s voice suddenly filled the air. He smiled as he shook his head. Really, nothing would escape the woman! It wasn’t long before his beautiful wife entered the foyer. A smile slowly crept at his face. How long had it been? A few hours? But to him it felt a few days.
Apparently, she felt that way too the way she just rushed to him and kissed him. He returned that kiss with gusto. Their kiss was long and passionate, filled with love and he was so into it that when Adalina moved her head backwards to actually talk to Vincenzo, he placed his hand behind her head so that he could continue kissing her!
It wasn’t as if she was complaining.
But like all good things, they had to end. Vincenzo felt Adalina put his hand on his chest and he felt her apply pressure to it. Vincenzo got the message and stopped but he looked at her with an expression that was both goofy and confused, as if his face said to her “Why are we stopping?” That was an expression that only an extreme few would see.
He opened his mouth, asking if anything was wrong but she cut him too it and asked about his day. “I’ve had better days, but it’s alright now,” the two were close enough that he could just whisper it to her. And he did. Seductively.
She pulled way though, Vincenzo felt peculiar that he wasn’t holding his wife. She crossed the room and took off the apron she was wearing. Vincenzo, who was always the person to make the most out of any moment, walked to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. The two were facing each other once again in a romantic embrace. “Shhhh,” he whispered as he caressed her face with his hand. “I’m sure he’s on his way. Don’t worry.”
As if on cue, the door opened and closed but it was very much louder.
“Sorry I’m late!” Marco said. He had an exasperated look on his face. Vincenzo was about to tell him that it was alright but Marco just went straight to the other part of the house, obviously to his room. He didn’t even glance at his parents. “You can start dinner without me. I smell like paint,” he said as he hurried of to his room. He left so hurriedly not because he just saw his parents like that, he really did smell like paint and wanted to change. It wasn’t as if Marco was shocked to see his parents in some romantic embrace, they were Italian after all and for them the sight of romantic gestures in public was as common as the dew on grass in an early morning.
As soon as Marco was gone, Vincenzo sniffed the air, true enough there the slight smell of paint wafting in the air. He looked back to Adalina, whose hands were still on his shoulders and while his hands were still on her waist, “Let’s wait for Marco?” he asked her. A small smile forming in his lips.
Vincenzo was home. In all the chaos happening around him at work, at least when he got home those problems were put on hold. At least back at home, he actually found a semblance of peace.
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Post by Adalina Stregoni on Jun 15, 2012 17:44:40 GMT -5
It was the year 1983, when she was eighteen years old and a sophomore in university when she first met VIncenzo at something as trivial as the Italian version of a fraternity party. She'd gone, because her friends had begged her to take a night off from her usual kick boxing class to hang out with them - to make a girl's night out of it. Of course, it was only because her best friend at the time, Adriana, had been infatuated with the host of the party, who's birthday had just been announced but every Thursday had been his birthday for the past month. Normally, Lina would have made one of her famous faces, rolled her piercing blue orbs and flatly said no not because she wasn't up for taking a night off from kick boxing with Ambrogio, who had been teaching her the art at the time, but because it was just going to be a bunch of drunk people being foolish. She didn't mind getting drunk - but when she was sure she would lose her friends by the end of the night, one by one, she didn't want to look like some lonely drunk. They managed to convince her and, because of how animate she was about them constantly leaving her to screw around with various partners, made her the designated driver. But the pumping 80's music eventually made it's way into her veins and she found herself on the dance floor with all her girls who made sure not to ditch her that night dancing like crazy. Her friends danced to gain the attention of the males around them but Adalina? She danced as if she were in her bedroom. She danced as if she were home alone with the 8-trackblasting her favorite stupid Madonna songs. She danced, honestly, like no one was watching and frankly, like she just didn't give a damn.
Apparently, though, it had gained enough attention from someone and as she was pulled away from the dance floor to find a red cup full of whatever alcohol was available, she had looked up at the feeling of eyes firmly on her. They landed on Vincenzo's face, on the second floor balcony of the beach house, outdoor party. She'd been clad in an electric blue bikini that night, her friends in neon pinks and lemony yellows. He'd had his own drink in his hand and he'd been leaning onto the wooden railing simply looking at her as if distracted. She felt her cheeks go red and one of her friends nudged her, "He's off limits, Lina," the slurred words reached her ears but she held his gaze, almost defiantly before arching a manicured eyebrow at her comment, "At least for you, being a virgin and all," she laughed and that was when Lina tore her eyes away and gave her friend a playful push while laughing, not denying what she said at any moment. But when she looked back up to see if he was still there, he wasn't. But Adriana had seen him too...or she wouldn't have said anything about the matter. So after drinking from two random cups shoved into their hands, a song the two girls liked came on and were suddenly dancing again, singing the words out loud to each other. Lina had to admit, she had fun that night and if she hadn't gone, she wouldn't have felt those hands around her wide hips or the hard body of Vincenzo behind her, turning her around so they could dance. They didn't have to say anything because they just seemed to click. Adriana, who ended up going through three marriages after college, even said she'd noticed it when she first met Vincenzo at that party. But the first thing Lina ever said to him was her name and it seemed like that was all he needed to know.
Now, years later, she would have never thought she would end up in the same position with his arms around her small waist and her arms around his neck. She liked the devilish look on her face, not caring much that Nonna was sitting in the dinning room impatiently while Marco suddenly came and disappeared in the blink of an eye, "Buona idea," (Good idea) she smirked devlishly, giving him yet another one of those expressive faces of hers that literally translated to: Oh...it's on. And of course, this was meant in more ways than one. She took no hesitation in picking up where they left off before in the atrium, meeting her lips with his own in what could only be described as one hell of a sweet battle between lips and tongues. It had honestly been difficult when she'd said she was going to Southern Italy in regards to Ambrogio's disappearance. She'd been gone for nearly two months trying to find him and then that extra time in Sicily where she came back and for about a week she was like a completely different person. She'd been stoic, rarely leaving her office or her studio, and at night, she slept at the edge of her side of the bed, as far away from Vincenzo as possible as if touching him would suddenly make her turn to dust. But then, like a flip of a switch, she was back to her delightful self and even as Nonna eyed her carefully, she figured Adalina had gotten over it.
She never really had. She just became better at hiding it.
Her fingers played with the back of his hair as she found herself being lifted onto the island in the kitchen, her skirt riding up but what did that matter? They were home. She wrapped her long legs around his waist to keep him close. She was glad she never dated anyone before Vincenzo. Maybe she would have started comparing them, trying to figure out who was better at what and who could push the right buttons to get the right reactions out of her. She'd been told he'd slept with multiple women which was why he was considered untouchable to her by her friend's standards. It was that Adalina was literally untouched - by any man ever and she'd admitted this to him a few weeks after their initial meeting - because that same night they had kissed and she had stopped them there, willing to continue but knowing better than to rush anything. She had to pace herself. No matter what, she couldn't get caught up in the moment. It didn't really matter because after about two months of dating, she was already inviting him to her dorm room to have an afternoon rendezvous under her bed sheets before she had to go to another martial arts of kick boxing session. Nonna used to joke that it was comical how she hadn't know he'd been a Stregoni until after she'd slept with him - as if it were some kind of silent test he'd pushed on her without her knowledge...especially when even Adriana knew his last name. Somehow, Lina had been oblivious to it - but it hadn't changed anything to her anyway.
She let out a soft and content sigh mixed with a moan into the x-rated make out session before hearing someone clear their throat. She seemed reluctant to stop, biting on Vincenzo's lower lip as her eyes averted his handsome face to see Marco and Nonna waiting for them, the look on Nonna's face saying hurry the fuck up or I will stab you. Adalina smiled as she brushed her lips against her husband's cheek as she went to whisper in his ear, "Dopo cena sul balcone," (After dinner on the balcony) it wouldn't surprise anyone if she were to say the two of them had, essentially, made love on every surface of this estate. They were allowed to - they owned it and they were married. There was no harm in it in her eyes. Like the one time Nonna had gone back to Italy to visit Lina's father and they had the house all to themselves since the servants had all left for the night. He'd gotten home and she'd been extra quiet when he entered the kitchen to find her standing there in nothing but her apron which covered just enough -
But that's another story for another day.
Reluctantly, she disentangled herself from Vincenzo's delicious frame and let her heels click against the floor as she sat in her usual place at the table, blowing a loose strand of dark hair out of her face as she waited for him to take his seat before Nonna, like always, said the prayer to bless the food, and then they were able to eat, finally, the wonderful meal Adalina had prepared, "Allora cosa stai lavorando, Marco?" (What are you working on now, Marco?) she asked him before taking a bite of her chicken that she'd cut up into tiny pieces. She always did love hearing about his school work with art. She'd always wanted to study it herself, hence her pushing him and supporting him in his pursuit of it, but she had other duties to fill in that seemed to obliterate any time to make the same choices - or even have those choices. Not that she regretted any of it. She loved art - recreationaly. It was her stress reliever, other than sex with Vincenzo, and helped her express what she found she had been suppressing all these years.
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Post by Marco Stregoni on Jun 18, 2012 15:28:21 GMT -5
Be prudent in striving for perfection for one who aims for it in everything achieves it in nothing [STYLE=text-align: justify; border-bottom: 10px solid #4d4d4d; padding: 10 0 10 0;]While Marco was living on his own and had some sort of stable income with his participation in the family business, he still had to go home every day for there were some things that still bound him to the Stregoni estate.
His mother.
It wasn’t that he was complaining, but there were just some times where he really wanted to continue his work, especially now that he was on such a roll. It was hard sometimes to finally find the inspiration to work on something but suddenly you had to drop it for something else, what if you went back to that project and all your will to finish it was suddenly gone? Oh no, Marco hoped that that wouldn’t happen to him.
But whatever, family was calling and dinner time was particularly sacred to his mother. It wasn’t long when he saw his home. Immediately after parking, he hurried inside, hoping that he had some time to clean up before dinner. But that was a slim chance since he was late already.
“Sorry I’m late!” he said as he entered. He found his parents in a…compromising position. Well whatever, at least they found something to do. Besides, showing affection was normal to Marco, as it was for many Italians. Go to Florence in springtime and take a shot for every couple showing their affections publicly and even a werewolf’s liver would give up! “You can start dinner without me. I smell like paint,” he said as he hurried off.
Marco sniffed the air. Such a hassle, the smell of paint coming of it was so strong.
With the size of the Stregoni estate, it took Marco a solid five minutes to get to his room. He opened the door, looking at a very familiar sight. Marco designed his room but in the end it was a collaborative effort between him and his parents. In the end, the room was quite the modern looking room, yet it held some more traditional styles as well. As soon as he entered he started to undress, making sure that he kept his smelly clothing at the hamper in his bathroom. He entered his huge walk-in closet clad in nothing but his boxers and got a simple plain shirt and a pair of black denim pants. As soon as he put those on he just wore a pair of flip-flops (since he was home anyway), made sure that he didn’t smell like paint and when he figured out that he didn’t, he went out the door and went to the dining room.
The smell of his mother’s cooking wafted into the corridor. As Marco his stomach couldn’t help but grumble in hunger. Wow, maybe he was hungry after all. Yet as he approached the dining room, he couldn’t hear any of the silverware clattering. Strange. They didn’t seem to start just yet and to think that Nonna was particular about starting dinner on time. Marco proceeded to the kitchen where he found his Nonna just standing there. He opened his mouth, about to call Nonna but it was then he noticed a movement in his peripherals. An eyebrow rose as he saw his parents making out. His mother was on the island counter with her legs were wrapped at his father’s body.
Marco looked down and immediately cleared his throat and immediately went back to the dining room.
He did not just see that! Sure Italians are known for displaying affection but that was definitely more than just regular affection! His father may face danger every day, he did too but he didn’t see his mother throttle him with affection! By the gods, sometimes his parents just needed to control themselves.
He sat at his usual place, waiting for his parents and his Nonna. Soon enough they showed up and as his father pulled out his mother’s chair so that she could sit down. The two had eye contact, his father was looking smug and Marco could only react to that by rolling his eyes. Really, his father was so different whenever he came home.
After Nonna said her prayer and blessed the food Marco immediately took his knife and fork and started eating. As usual, his mother’s cooking was superb! You could smell it, taste it and even hear it! With the way the definite crunching sound the chicken fillet made whenever Marco cut it and with the soft, tasty aroma coming his food. It wasn’t long before he was halfway done with his plate.
Marco was about to eat another bite when his mother asked him about his project.
“Nothing too hard, we’re working on 3D art,” he said enthusiastically, “but were just painting it on canvas, I’ll bring it home when I’m done.” Yes, when he was done. Usually with Marco it took him quite a while to finish making his artwork. Why? Well it was a simple reason really, there was just something so wrong about his artwork, in his standards, that he simply scrapped it and started from scratch.
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Post by Adalina Stregoni on Jun 18, 2012 21:26:30 GMT -5
Looking at Marco intently as she spoke, as if every word he said was absorbed infinitely and stored into a massive file in her mind for further reference, she was reminded of how old Marco had been when she'd left for Southern Italy that one morning. He'd been eleven, recently turned because they were still eating the cannolis left over from the party. He'd come bustling down the stairs in his pajamas which of course, no matter how many times she, Nonna, and the staff washed, still had paint speckled on the light gray flannel. His dark hair had been a mop on his head and she specifically remembered making a mental note to tell Vincenzo to take him to get it cut somehow - at least so it wouldn't fall in his eyes which she adored and loved to see. She'd brushed his hair out of his face after squatting down in her blue jeans (a rarity now. She didn't like stepping out of the house in something she considered so casual when she had a very large family and organization to represent.) and he'd wrapped his arms around her, stifling his yawns because he was still sleepy. He had to go to school in about three hours and she didn't want him falling asleep in class. He had asked her when she would be coming back because he wanted to go to this new exhibit he'd seen in the paper while Vincenzo had been reading it the other day over breakfast. She had smiled, completely sure she would be back in time and had reassured him they would go - she shouldn't take longer than a month (she stressed at most) because she'd thought this would be simple. She would just go, get her brother, bring him back to Florence with his team, and all would be well. Marco had been so tiny then, so reliant that she would come back safe and sound, be there everyday to give him breakfast and take him to school, hold his hand or carry him while they walked down the halls of art museums scattered throughout the city, to take him to the odd places he'd request in order to get the latest inspiration for his latest masterpiece - all of which she had hanging around the house that he'd given for her to keep. A proud display that she'd given birth to an artistic genius - the modern day Michael Angelo or Leonardo Da Vinci. The modern day Monet.
And as Marco explained he would show it to her when he was done, she remembered the day she came back, nearly two and a half months later, and how, upon entering a home she suddenly felt alien in, he'd run over and hugged her, wrapping his arms around her wide hips. That was what love was like. It was like a puppy who licks you and loves you, a child who trusts you and who's world revolves around you...even after you'd left the puppy home all day...or left the child motherless for two and a half months after breaking a promise of saying it would only be one. Needless to say, they had missed the exhibit but he didn't seem to mind, considering Nonna had taken him for once. And she had felt so utterly shattered by this stupid little situation - by the fact she hadn't been able to take him to an exhibit because she'd been foolish enough to think finding her brother would be so easy - or maybe she had simply been angry because she'd played right into the hands of an enemy she never even knew she had and the consequences continued to devastate her.
Even now, sitting at the table, she barely touched her food despite being in a good mood. She always ate while cooking and though she took a few bites of her chicken and pasta, she was done by then. She enjoyed seeing Nonna, despite her elderly age, devouring her food and already going for second helpings, Marco not too far behind, "I'll get it," she said softly, taking Marco's plate gently from him and serving him another hearty helping before setting it down in front of him. Her own thoughts had betrayed her and stolen her appetite, as it normally did, "I look forward to seeing it," she smiled brightly at him, honestly looking forward to it as she sat back down, finishing her wine and pouring herself another glass. She knew she had picked up alcohol quite heavily during dinner time over the last ten years. It had definitely become another stress reliever over that course of time.
Under the table, her soft hand reached over and grabbed Vincenzo's knee, tracing circles gently in the fabric of his pants across his skin. It wasn't meant to be sexual, though one could never know with Adalina. She was grateful they'd been patient with her over the few weeks she'd been completely cooped up and hidden away from the two of them. Honestly, she had simply needed to come to terms with what happened and accept it - alone. It was something she couldn't talk about with anyone, really. How could Vncenzo understand? Oh, honey, I lost all my magical essence and I feel like part of my soul is missing. Is that normal? No. She didn't think that would sit well with him and by what happened to the majority of the Visconti men upon her return, they'd gotten what they somewhat deserved. She'd been so cold to him, so mechanical, and after that hiccup, she'd spent every waking moment silently making it up to him and attempting to return back to normal. Thankfully, she'd almost succeeded with certain things simply unable to return to their routine.
The first night she'd actually turned to face him in bed instead of giving him her back or sleeping in a guest room, she had practically pounced on the man, getting all her anger and frustrations, sadness and desperation out through the most carnal act she could think of and it had somehow helped her get back into the swing of things. Sex with Vincenzo, with her husband, with the man she loved, could probably place the most beautiful band aid over any wound. Her bright orbs went ofver to lock with Vincenzo's even as Nonna spoke, "Quando hai intenzione di portare a casa una donna, Marco?" (When are you going to bring home a girlfriend, Marco?) The strangely strong old woman slightly raised her fork, waving it a bit at him before continuing, "Non voglio vivere per sempre e voglio essere in giro per vedere mio nipote grande grande" (I will not live forever and I want to be around to see my great great grandson.) Adalina couldn't help but laugh at her grandmother, such a cooky nut but she was one hell of a potion creator and one hell of a trainer in the magical arts. She may not use her own magic anymore (unless provoked or offended) but when she did, she knew damn well how.
"Tua madre non mi darà un altro nipote. Lei è vecchia comunque," (Your mother will not give me another grandson. She's old anyway.) the old Italian woman continued and Adalina looked over at her in mock disbelief, disengaging her eyes from Vincenzo's in the process, "Nonna!" (Grandmother!) she laughed and it came out sweet and natural. She knew why her grandmother kept specifying with grandsons and great great grandsons. It would be horrible if they had a daughter, as much as Adalina would have loved to have one. She had yet to hit menopause, but she knew she was pretty damn close. Having another child at forty three, though, didn't sound all that amusing.
"Marco can take his time bringing home a girlfriend...He had more than enough on his plate to be worrying about children," she flashed him a smile despite, at his age, having already been engaged and then, only a year or two later, being pregnant and having her first child. But it was different, times were different, and they weren't in Italy. He wasn't standing on balconies looking over crowds and suddenly spotting his future wife dancing like Vincenzo had with Adalina unbeknowingly. And once everyone was finished with their meal, she finished her third cup of expensive wine and was standing, her alcohol tolerance a bit too high for someone like herself, and she let two staff members clear the table since she had cooked. It was a bargain considering she hated doing dishes anyway-the only chore she really did hate besides taking out the trash. It smelled.
She had poured herself another glass as Nonna seemed to pull Marco to her side, whispering in his ear, "Si dovrebbe davvero pensare di ottenere una ragazza, sì? Sarebbe felice tua madre ... considerando che non è stata lei stessa ultimamente," (You really should think about getting a girlfriend, yes? It would make your mother happy...considering she hasn't been herself lately.)she said this barely above a whisper, so only Marco could hear as she reached over and grabbed a piece of basil, plopping it into her mouth while looking up at her charming great grandson. If anyone knew Adalina inside and out it was Nonna, who had basically raised the charming Stregoni wife herself since her mother was long gone since her birth.
But Adalina was oblivious to the conversation, having gone around to the head of the table, the dishes all cleared, and, after leaving the glass of wine on the table, wrapping her arms around Vincenzo, nuzzling her nose into his neck affectionately before nibbling a bit on his ear, "Eri fuori fino a tardi ieri sera ... Mi devi per avermi fatto dormire da solo," (You were out late last night...You owe me for making me sleep alone.) her words were low and husky in his ear, one hand going inside his shirt that was already slightly unbuttoned and running a hand gently over his chest. Adalina really did hate sleeping alone - it usually ended with her not sleeping at all and just working in her office until she saw or heard his car in the driveway and then she'd rush to bed and lay down as if she'd been there the entire time so he wouldn't think she was so overly worries sick over his well being - even if he was simply at the office. He didn't need more stress or pressure. The more she could take that away from him the better.
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