I’ve been starving, I realize. Not for food, but for this. The Vicis, whose family my father slaughtered, are feeding me like I’m one of their own.
I’m laughing at another story, this one about Matteo trying to cook for a girl and nearly burning down the kitchen, when I realize there’s a broad, shadowed figure filling the doorway.
Watching me.
The warmth drains from my body.
Vincenzo wears his usual black, and he’s obscured by darkness. All but his eyes, which are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. How long has he been standing there?
The words burst from my lips before I can stop them, sharp and accusatory. “What are you doing here?”
The other two stop talking as Vincenzo steps into the light. His eyebrow arches. “What am I doing here? This is my house, doe.”
Heat floods my face. His house? But this is Sofia’s house. Or is that just what I assumed? I stare around the room, hunting for clues that I’ve missed.
“But I thought…” I stare in horror at the remains of my meal and my half-empty wineglass. I’m sitting in Vincenzo’s kitchen eating his food and laughing with his cousin and aunt like I have any right to be here.
I push back from the table, nearly knocking over my wine in my haste to get to my feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, Matteo noticed I was hungry, and I—”
“Sit.”
One word. Quiet but absolute.
I have no idea what he’s thinking. No idea if I’ve crossed some invisible line.
Slowly, like my chair might explode, I sit.
Vincenzo moves to the table and takes the empty chair across from me. He doesn’t reach for any food. Doesn’t pour himself wine. Just sits there, watching me with those intense blue eyes that miss nothing.
“Vincenzo, eat,” Sofia orders, setting a plate in front of him. “You’re as bad as she is. Neither of you eat enough.”
“I’m fine,Zia.”
“You’re not fine. Eat.”
He sighs but picks up a fork, and something about the exchange—the easy command, the reluctant obedience—makes me realize this is normal for them. Sofia mothers him. He lets her. There’s love in the dynamic, even when it’s wrapped in exasperation.
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
Vincenzo glances up at that exact moment, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“My mother used to make this sauce,” he says slowly. “Every Sunday. The whole house would smell like it for hours.” He glances at my plate. “You like it?”
“I love it. It’s delicious.”
Is it my imagination, or does he relax slightly? As he eats, Sofia gets up from the table and replenishes all our water glasses. Her hand touches Vincenzo’s shoulder as she passes him, and he murmurs his thanks. He still has love and affection in his life. I feel a glow of happiness for him. Even a little envy.
Matteo keeps talking, filling the silence with a story about a supplier who tried to cheat them. Sofia interjects with corrections and commentary. The warmth of the kitchen continues to flow around me, but the air between Vincenzo andme feels charged. Electric. A separate current running beneath the easy conversation.
Last night, he held me while I cried. Stroked my hair. Promised to protect me. His thumb traced the curve of my cheek with such gentleness.
But he didn’t kiss me.
In the restaurant, he kissed me like he was starving. In the laundromat, in my living room, every other time we’ve been alone, his mouth has found mine like he couldn’t help himself.
But not last night. When I was vulnerable and crying in his arms, he held back.
Why?
