For five years, my Italian in-laws laughed at me in their language, thinking I was too stupid to understand. I smiled, served dinner, and memorized every insult. But the night I announced my pregnancy

driver had followed mine through the iron gates.

They had no idea the storm had already reached their roof.

Inside, the family sat around the long dining table.

Matteo smiled.

Bianca smiled.

Luca smiled.

All wolves.

All teeth.

“Elena,” Bianca said, tapping the chair beside her. “Sit. We have decided what is best.”

I remained standing.

“So have I.”

Bianca gave continue reading …