Throwing back the rest of his drink, my brother stands up, buttoning his suit jacket. “I’ll be taking my wife out to dinner while you handle this in your own, deeply regrettable way.”
I wave goodbye without looking at him, already making my plan of attack.
Despite her protests, Cora is fast asleep on the couch by the windows when I let myself into the room. Angling my head, I check to see if she’s made an escape rope from knotted sheets, but the bed is still made.
“Wake up,Bellissima,”I croon, kneeling by the couch. She avoids it for a moment, making a protesting little noise and snuggling deeper into her pillow. The thick fan of her eyelashes rests on her cheekbones, and it’s a pleasure to see the gaunt cast to her face is gone.
When her eyes finally open, she stiffens. “You’re looming.”
“It’s called kneeling,” I said.
“Not when you’re fifty-seven feet tall,” she grumbles, sitting up.
I can see she’s showered, at least and found the clean clothes laid out for her. “Why don’t you… brush your hair, tidy up, and come downstairs? We’ll eat and talk. There’s a lot to discuss.”
“What is it with you and my hair?” Cora said defensively.
“It looks like you were attacked by birds,” I said honestly. Eyes narrowed, she’s off the couch and flouncing into the bathroom. “Five minutes!” I called after her.
I’ll give her credit, within five minutes Cora has pulled herself together and she’s making her way down the stairs to the stone terrace.
“You must be starving,” I said, holding her chair for her. She looks at the beautifully set table, the candles and back at me.
“This seems like quite the production,” she says suspiciously.
“Well, my last chance to play host for you turned out to be quite the disaster,” I said pleasantly, enjoying how her jaw clenches.
Spreading her napkin over her lap, Cora eyes me nervously, as if waiting for me to lunge across the table.
Our housekeeper comes out with a tray full of dishes and a huge smile. She’s never actually seen me with a woman before, because I’ve never brought one home. “Martina, this is Cora Thorne, Cora, our beautiful and formidable chef and house manager Martina De Luca.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Martina,” Cora says with the first genuine smile I’ve seen today.
“And you as well,” Martina gushes, looking far too happy about this. I raise a brow and she throws up her hands. “Well, I have a cake- ah- a dessert in the oven so I must get back to the kitchen.”
“Tortellini Soup with Sausage,” I said, ladling a generous portion into a bowl for her. “This is one of Martina’s best dishes. She must want to impress you.”
Cora smiles after the first spoonful. “Oh, my god that is so good,” she moans, and I have to adjust my zipper before my cock tries to break through it. “I’ve been grateful for every meal I’ve eaten since- since then, but this is amazing.”
“I must say, the deft way you’ve handled yourself since getting out of that sick fuck’s dungeon is impressive,” I said, pouring her a glass of Chianti. “You look healthy, you’re strong…”
Taking a sip of the wine, she closes her eyes and sighs reverently. “This is amazing. Is it from your family’s vineyard?”
“It is,” I said, pleased that she’s enjoying it. “A 2008. It won best Chianti at the Decanter World Wine Awards that year.”
“You must be so proud,” she says with a genuine smile, “that’s such a huge honor.”
“Next course,” I said, putting down her salad plate. “Warm Castelfranco with Vincotto and Blu di Bufala.”
I’m getting so much pleasure out of watching her enjoy the food that I almost forget to eat myself, something Martina notices as she clears the salad plates.
“I made your favorite for the main course,” she said pointedly.
“Creamy Tuscan Shrimp?” I said, rising and kissing her soundly on both cheeks, noticing that Cora’s trying to hide her grin behind her wine glass. “You are my favorite woman, you know this!”
Martina is jaded to my antics, so getting her to giggle is quite the accomplishment, and I can hear her as she heads back to the kitchen. It’s silent for a moment as Cora reverently takes a bite of the shrimp.
“I didn’t miss food, you know?” she says abruptly. “It wasn’t- he only fed me every other day, I think. But lying there, I didn’t dream of ice cream or pasta. Because if I did, I’d throw up the little he did give me out of guilt. It took me a couple of weeks before I could eat without feeling like I was betraying those poor women. I never…” she toyed with her fork, “I never did feel guilty for killing Schmidt, not once.”
