Alceu's stream of protests cuts off abruptly as the pun registers on his face. The air stills for the briefest of moments before he cracks up again, laughing through the words. “Se,Butcheredit!”
She looks up at me with her big, innocent eyes, and smiles, proud of herself. “I'll learn Sicilian, Sir.”
I want to get her alone.
I nod. “Of course you will.”
“Fawn is an excellent cook as well,” Luca adds, watching the exchange as I have been, ready to defuse, protect, or support, though Fawn has charmed Alceu with little effort on her part. Just—being her endearing self.
“Yes,” Alceu agrees, his eyes squinting slightly as he notices she has one blue iris and one green, and I very much wish to remove his just for noticing. “I hear you bake, young lady,” he says, levelling his gaze again.
She nods. “Yes.”
I stare at them, apathetic and smooth, but feeling irritated, irrationally, so. This is going better than I expected, but I can't help the instinct rising inside me as they assess her like a prize diamond at auction—weighing her worth, measuring her potential, tallying her inclusions and qualities as if she needs their approval.
She needs only mine.
Still, she seems proud of herself, and so I let this continue.Fuckers.
“And you're making your own cake?” Alceu asks, obviously having been told by my father, who certainly meant well, boasting about her to Alceu.
“Se,” she says.
“I've always said,” he begins, sipping and swallowing his red wine in quick succession. “If you want something done properly, do it yourself. Seems your new husband feels the same, with what he's doing here in the District.”
“I stay out of all of that,” she admits honestly. “I'm his home, and I wish to stay that way.”
Well, fuck.
My cock twitches.
“Let me tell you something.” Alceu leans in, so I edge closer too, defensive. “The way to a Made Man's heart is with pasta and cannoli. Lots of useless but pretty creatures in this Family. My boy has chosen a traditional Italian wife. You have Italian in you; I see the Northern Italian in you from your dad's side. One the old-world would approve of. A mother, wife, and excellent cook?”
Luca adds, “Not to mention new alliances.”
My father refers to the Stockyard Bikers, previously her father’s connections. I cut in before they can continue. “Fawn’s interests remain separate from my business." My tone leaves no space for debate. “We don’t discuss such things.”
Alceu's gaze lingers on her a beat too long. My jaw tightens again, so I lift my other hand, palming the ache. I've never tolerated others monopolizing her attention, and Alceu’s time with her is running short.
"The cannoli," he pivots, still enjoying the sight of her. This unwelcome envy is going to get people killed. "You prefer cream cheese or mascarpone?"
"I use ricotta cream," she replies, chin lifting slightly. “Maggie said, it’s the traditional way.”
Alceu's brows weave as he turns to my father. "Nathalia's recipe, what did she use?"
"Ricotta," Luca confirms with a nod of approval.
"I must taste these cannoliof yours," Alceu declares.
Fawn smiles. "I'd be happy to send you some.”
His eyes brighten. "Better yet—you'll prepare them for me in Sicily," he says with the casual entitlement of a man accustomed to compliance. Not in this case.
I throw back my whiskey, swallowing. "Is that a request or an order?" I find myself challenging him.
The old man’s eyes dance between us, lips curling in amusement. Luca mirrors his expression, both men who blind wandering eyes for inappropriate use of their property. “I would never command another Don's wife."
Fucker.
