Lucia… my Lucia… my little, sexy and fiercedragunnida, deserves better than that.
So I make a decision that’s very long overdue.
I set the untouched glass down, turn away from the pool, and walk inside with purpose that feels more terrifying than any negotiation I’ve ever entered.
The kitchen smells of herbs and simmering stock.
Caterina stands at the counter, scribbling on her notepad with the severity of a woman who believes food is both religion and weapon.
She doesn’t look up until I speak.
“Caterina.”
“Yes, Don Giovanni?”
I pause.
Then, evenly, “Tomorrow night, I want a table set for two.”
Her pen stills. “A table is always set for two.”
“Not like this,” I say.
Now she looks up. Her eyes sharpen immediately, as if she can smell change the way she can smell garlic burning.
“I want candles.”
Her brows lift.
“I want the old silver.”
Her mouth tightens and quivers.
“I want my wife’s favourite meals. All of them. But maybe let’s start with the one she tried to make the night I came home bleeding.”
Caterina’s expression flickers as understanding dawns, slow and devastating. Then, to my absolute shock, she bursts out laughing.
It’s not a polite chuckle or an indulgent giggle. It’s a fucking full-bodied, scandalised laugh that goes on for nearly a minute.
I stand there, unmoving, waiting. Is she… having a stroke? Do I need to summon one of my doctors?
When she finally sobers, wiping at her eyes, she finds my face unchanged. The amusement drains from her immediately.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “You’re serious.”
My jaw clenches, my fists tightening in my pockets as I battle the ball of unfamiliar anxiety growing inside me and deal with the insanity unfolding in front of me. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
Caterina studies me for a long moment, then inclines her head with the gravity of a priest accepting confession. “Si,” she says. “Va bene.”
Then, because she cannot help herself, she adds under her breath, “Miracles do happen.”
My jaw tightens. “Caterina.”
She lifts her hands innocently. “I said nothing.”
I turn to leave, already regretting half of this.
At the doorway, her voice stops me. “Don Giovanni.”
