Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Boston to the ground, just to keep me under her wing, a nice little doll she
can dress up and manipulate forever.
So instead of accepting Kal’s offer, I shake my head again, straightening
my spine until it cracks.
“I made you come here. It’s only fair I see it through, right?”
His mouth curves down, the muscle below his eye pulsing. “You didn’t
make me do anything. I did it because I—”
“Supper is served!”
One of my parents’ private chefs pushes a cart through the French doors,
wheeling a covered baking dish over to the table. Nonna and Papá file in
after, Papá taking his usual spot at the head of the table. Normally, Mamá
would sit at the opposite end, and everyone else would find a seat between,
but Kal walks over to the table and plops down in Mamá’s chair.
Stella and Ariana freeze, lifting their heads as he sits. I feel the heat of
their gazes on me, but I can’t tear mine from my husband, stomach tightening
until it’s forcing bile up, burning the expanse of my chest with the onslaught.
God, this is going to be a long night.
Quietly, Nonna sits on the other side of Stella, patting her elbow and
saying the bucatini all’Amatriciana smells amazing. Papá and Kal are locked
in a staring contest, although it’s beginning to feel like something more.
Something they aren’t telling me.
Normally, we wait to eat until all the guests are seated at the table, and
since Mamá hasn’t yet arrived, the Riccis all sit back in their seats, sipping
drinks or buttering rolls.
Kal, though, reaches to the center of the table, removes the cloche from
the pasta dish, and makes himself a plate.
Taking the seat to Kal’s left, I unfold my napkin and settle it over my lap.
My voice is hushed when I speak, barely audible, but Kal leans in and listens
as he shoves a forkful of bucatini into his mouth. “Why are you locked in
some sort of dick measuring contest with Papá right now?”
“Mine’s bigger. Contest over.” He tucks his napkin into the collar of his
shirt, clearing his throat without dropping my father’s stare.
I make a face. “Ew. What’s going on with you two? Aren’t you worried
about how this might look to the Elders?”
“How what might look?”
I shrug, moving my hands in a circular gesture. “This. You, undermining
his contract with Bollente Media, marrying the daughter he promised to them,