Chapter 1: Questions and Answers
The fire crackled, a low, possessive sound in the quiet room. It painted shifting gold across the knuckles of Avery’s hand where it rested on the spine of her book, and glinted off the silver rings on Alex’s fingers as she sketched. The record player, an old Philips Dominic had restored, hummed faintly, a bassline threading under the easy silence.
Angel was a warm, compact weight against Dominic’s side, his white curls spilling like spun sugar over the black cotton of his father’s sleeve. He was frowning intently at Dominic’s tablet, scrolling through a gallery of dented fenders and oxidized paint jobs. “This one wants candy-apple red with silver flake,” he murmured, his voice barely disturbing the air. “But his budget is… not candy-apple red with silver flake.”
Dominic chuckled, the sound a deep vibration in his chest that Angel felt against his temple. “Tell him if he wants a show car, he’s gotta pay the show car price. Or he can have a solid maroon like a sensible person.”
“I’ll be diplomatic,” Angel said, already typing with careful thumbs, a small smile playing on his lips.
Alex stretched, the muscles in her shoulders and arms rolling under her tank top. She dropped her stylus onto her drawing tablet with a deliberate click. The silence had been nice, but it was getting heavy. Too peaceful. Her eyes, the same dark blue as her mother’s but with a sharper, more mischievous glint, landed on her brother, serene and pink-clad against their father’s monochrome bulk.
“So,” she said, the word slicing through the room. “I’ve been thinking.”
Avery didn’t look up from her book. “A historic event. Mark the calendar, Dom.”
“Ha ha.” Alex rolled her eyes. “No, seriously. The names. Our names. Who picked ‘em?”
Angel paused his typing. Dominic’s arm around his shoulders gave a slight, reassuring squeeze.
“Why?” Dominic asked, his tone gently curious. “You finally decided ‘Alexandra’ is too stuffy? Want us to call you ‘Lex’ now? Or ‘Xandra’?”
“God, no. ‘Alex’ is fine. I’m just trying to picture it.” She gestured at her mother with her chin. “You, I get. ‘Alexandra Monroe’ sounds like a private detective who drinks whiskey and solves crimes in raincoats. Solid. But ‘Angel’?” She looked at her brother, who was now staring fixedly at the tablet screen, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Angel. For a boy. I mean, come on. Which one of you looked at a screaming newborn baby boy and thought, ‘Yep. That’s an Angel’?”
Avery did look up then, snapping her book closed. A grin spread across her face, the kind that showed teeth and promised a good story. “Oh, this is my favorite story.”
“Mommy,” Angel whispered, a soft plea.
“No, no, she asked,” Avery said, waving a hand. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. The firelight caught the grey streaking her temples. “Alright. You, my gargoyle, were easy. I named you. Always liked the name. Strong. Classic. No arguments.”
“I wasn’t arguing,” Alex said, smirking. “I’m thanking you.”
“You should.” Avery’s gaze slid to Dominic, her expression shifting into one of fond mock-exasperation. “Him. Your father. The naming of Angel was… an operation.”
Dominic feigned offense, drawing himself up. “It was a beautiful moment.”
“It was a goddamn ambush,” Avery laughed.
Angel had now fully buried his face against Dominic’s arm, a muffled sound of embarrassment escaping him. Dominic rubbed his back. “Go on, tell it. She’s gonna needle you until you do.”
Avery settled back, warming to the tale. “So. Pregnancy was easy. Felt good. Looked like a damn planet, but I felt strong. We had lists. Spreadsheets, I swear to god. ‘Sebastian,’ ‘Marcus,’ ‘Theodore’… all these big, stompy names. I wanted something that sounded like it could bench press a Volvo.”
“You were bench pressing Volvos,” Dominic interjected.
“Near enough. Point is, we had it narrowed down. Or so I thought.” Her eyes twinkled. “Labor was fast. Too fast. Like, ‘oh that’s a backache’ to ‘the head is crowning’ in what felt like twenty minutes. Chaos. Beautiful, screaming chaos. And then there he was.” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “Perfect. Tiny. This shock of white hair, like he’d been dusted with powdered sugar. And he just… stopped crying. Looked right at me with these huge, navy-blue eyes.”
She paused, taking a sip of her now-cold coffee. “I was exhausted. Ecstatic, but gone. They cleaned him up, put him in my arms, and I just… crashed. Out like a light. Dominic was right there, holding my hand, holding him.”
All eyes turned to Dominic. His stern face, all sharp angles and shadowed jaw, was transformed by a tenderness that seemed to come from a different man entirely. He looked down at the top of Angel’s head.
“I just sat there,” he said, his voice quieter, rougher. “For hours. Your mom was snoring. The sun was coming up. And I had him. This little… person.” He shifted, trying to find the words. “All those names on the list. Sebastian. Marcus. They were just noises. They didn’t fit him. He was so quiet. So… peaceful. He just stared up at me, and his little hand grabbed my pinky, and he held on.”
The room was still, save for the pop of the fire.
“I’d never thought of it before,” Dominic continued. “Not seriously. But in that room, with the dawn coming in, it was the only thing in my head. It just… was. Like it had always been there, waiting. So when the nurse came in with the paperwork, I just took the pen. Wrote it down.”
Avery picked up the thread, her humor returning but softer now. “I wake up a few hours later. Feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, but a happy truck. Dominic’s sitting there, looking like he’s just won every championship in the world. He leans over, so gently, and says, ‘Hey, Ave. Meet our son.’ And I look at the little bracelet on his wrist. It says ‘Baby Boy Ricciardi’. And I say, ‘Okay, big guy. What’s his name?’ And this smug, beautiful bastard just smiles at me and says, ‘Angel. Angel Ricciardi.’”
She snorted. “I thought it was the drugs. I said, ‘Angel? Like, a heavenly being? Did you have a religious experience in the cafeteria?’”
Dominic was laughing now, his big frame shaking. “You should have seen your face. Pure disbelief.”
“Disbelief? I was trying to see if you’d had a stroke! ‘Angel’? For this big, bruising mechanic’s son? I pictured him getting the snot kicked out of him on a playground.”
“No one kicked the snot out of him,” Dominic said firmly, his hand still moving in slow circles on Angel’s back. Angel had peeked out, his face now a delicate shade of rose.
“No, they didn’t,” Avery agreed, her gaze landing on her son with undisguised affection. “Turns out, your daddy was right. The name just… folded itself around him. Fit him like it was made for him. Which I guess it was.”
Alex had been listening, her cynical smirk melted into something more thoughtful. “So you just… decided. No discussion.”
“Sometimes,” Dominic said, shrugging, the leather of the couch creaking. “Sometimes you just know a thing. It was the first decision I made for him. The only one that felt completely, one hundred percent right.”
Angel finally spoke, his voice a soft murmur. “I used to hate it. In school. The other boys… they’d call me ‘Christmas Tree Topper’ or ask where my wings were.”
Avery’s expression hardened, just for a second, a flash of the protector that lived beneath her skin. “What did I tell you to say to them?”
A small, surprisingly sassy smile touched Angel’s lips. “To say that my mom would rearrange their faces if they kept talking.”
“Damn right.”
“But,” Angel continued, fiddling with the hem of his pastel pink sweater, “I don’t hate it anymore. It’s… me. It’s from Daddy.” He looked up at Dominic, his blue eyes clear and earnest. “And you were right. It fits.”
Dominic’s eyes looked suspiciously bright in the firelight. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well. You made the name, kid. Not the other way around.”
Alex watched the exchange, the raw, unguarded affection between her father and brother. It punctured her usual armor. She couldn’t leave it sentimentally saccharine, though. That wasn’t her job.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, her smirk reasserting itself. “Dad, in a fit of hormonal, post-birth whimsy, scribbles down the most un-boy name imaginable. And Mom, who I’ve seen make grown men cry with a look, just… went with it?”
“I was vulnerable!” Avery protested, laughing. “He had the new baby and the pen! It was a tactical disadvantage!”
“You loved it,” Dominic countered. “Admit it. You thought it was perfect the second you stopped being shocked.”
Avery held his gaze for a long moment, the history of two decades passing silently between them. “Yeah,” she said, her voice gruff. “I did. Still do.” She looked at Angel. “My sweet, sassy, pastel Angel. Who is currently crushing my ribs.”
Angel had, in a sudden surge of emotion, launched himself across the couch to wrap his arms around Avery’s neck, burying his face in her shoulder. “Love you, Mommy.”
“Love you too, baby.” She kissed his curls, then pretended to wheeze. “Okay, oxygen. Need oxygen.”
He released her, settling back into the couch cushion, but closer to the center now, bridging the space between his parents. The mood had shifted, deepened, the easy silence now filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the fireplace.
Alex watched her family, the tight, loving unit of them. She felt a pang, not of exclusion, but of something softer. An understanding. She reached for her stylus again.
“Well,” she said, her tone deliberately light, breaking the gentle spell. “Good thing it wasn’t ‘Cupid’. Or ‘Cherub’. ‘Cherub Ricciardi’. Sounds like a low-level mobster.”
Angel threw a embroidered cushion at her. It flopped harmlessly against her arm. “You’re horrible.”
“I’m hilarious.” She picked up the cushion and hugged it. “So, Angel. Since your name is a testament to Dad’s secret fluffy interior, does that mean you’re baking today? I smell… potential.”
Angel wiped at his eyes quickly, the emotional moment receding into the comfortable domestic fabric. “I was thinking of lemon lavender shortbread.”
“With the icing?” Dominic asked, immediately interested.
“With the icing.”
“See?” Dominic said to Avery, as if this proved everything. “Angel. Baking shortbread. It’s perfect.”
Avery just shook her head, picking her book back up. She didn’t open it. She just watched her family—her teasing daughter, her gentle son, her softhearted, tough-as-nails husband—all framed in the golden Saturday light. The record reached its end with a soft click. For a moment, the only sound was the greedy crackle of the flames.
Then Angel uncurled himself and stood. “I’ll start now. But someone has to cream the butter. My wrist gets tired.” He looked pointedly at Alex.
“What? Why me?”
“Because you insulted my name. It’s reparations.”
Alex groaned, but she was already unfolding her long limbs from the floor, a grin tugging at her lips. “Fine. But I’m adding a pinch of salt. A big one. For drama.”
The spell was broken, the story woven into their history. The living room was no longer just a room; it was a container for this new layer, this old secret told. As Angel padded toward the kitchen, Alex following with exaggerated complaints, and Dominic’s low laugh rumbled again, Avery finally opened her book. She read the same line three times, not taking in a word, listening instead to the comfortable, clattering beginnings of baking in her kitchen, the sound of her family settling back into the sweet, ordinary rhythm of their day, anchored a little more firmly by the story of a name.