Guardian Angel. Leanne Banks

the last person to call me Italia to my face since seventh grade. I finally had to break his nose.”

      At the image of a feisty young Talia and a howling Don, Trace let out a deep laugh, feeling the tension leave his body.

      “Can I get you something from the bar?” a waitress asked.

      “Scotch, neat,” Trace said, and turned to Talia.

      “I’ll take a Bloody Mary.”

      As they waited for their drinks, Trace noticed the way she looked around the room with carefully veiled curiosity. Dismay seemed to cloud her eyes, and she bit her lip.

      “So what made your mother name you after Italy?” he asked in an effort to regain the earlier mood.

      She turned to him, the bleak expression fading. “My grandmother died in Italy the week before I was born. Mom was devastated that she couldn’t attend the funeral. And though my grandmother liked America, her first love was Italy. She was always telling my mother never to forget Italy.”

      Talia paused as the waitress set their drinks on the table. “When she first mentioned the notion of naming me after my grandmother’s homeland, my father thought she was crazy with grief. But he went along with it, hoping she’d change her mind when it came time to fill out the birth certificate.” Talia smiled and ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “She didn’t. I’m just glad Grandmother wasn’t from Turkey.”

      Trace grinned and watched the motion of her finger around the glass. “Imagine how many more noses would have been broken.”