“Right now, though, I need this team back together. Backstreet Boys style. This is a mission. We’re going to steal it back.”
Oh, boy.
The silence stretches long enough for me to hear Jinx yawning in the next room. A moment later, footsteps are coming down the stairs, then Ace and Nicholas stroll into the kitchen, both looking half-awake, but Ace seems to clock the tension instantly.
“What’s happening?” he asks, ice-blue eyes landing on me.
“We’re going on a mission,” I offer helpfully.
Sylus grins like a maniac before he grabs my hips and spins me once, making me squeal.
“Mission?” Ace echoes, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, every inch of him radiating I don’t have time for this shit, but also tell me everything.
“Didn’t we say we were done with this?” Nicholas asks, already making himself a coffee, like the chaos he walked in on is just background noise. “Pretty sure they only let us off the hook because we’re in another country and keeping our feet still. And I don’t know about you guys, but I’m too pretty for jail.”
“That’s my line,” Levi mutters, crossing his arms.
“You’re the prettiest,” Ezra murmurs, kissing his cheek and making him beam.
My gaze flicks to Ace, but he seems unfazed by the mention of jail. He just huffs and rolls his eyes.
“What mission?” he asks Koen. “Is there a plan?”
Sylus’s hands tighten on my hips, and I share a knowing smile with him over my shoulder.
Yeah, we both see the same thing behind Ace’s unimpressed expression, buried deep.
Interest. Excitement.
We’ve all felt it, the restlessness beneath the sun-drenched peace of Tuscany. Sure, this life is heaven. Good food. Good company. Really good sex. But danger? Adrenaline? The wild pulse of Vegas nights? That’s a high nothing else can replace.
Still, maybe… maybe there’s a thrill in peace too. Just a quieter one.
“There’s no plan yet,” Sylus admits. “That’s what you and Koen are for, right?”
Ace’s brows knit. “What is this even about?”
“Fucking cookies,” Ezra mutters again and gets a smack on the shoulder from Levi.
“Someone stole the biscotti recipe from Sylus’s favorite nonna,” I explain.
“From her small wrinkly hands,” Sylus repeats dramatically.
“They stole it from her actual hands? Like… torn from her grip?” Ace raises a brow.
Because yeah, even for us, that’s bold.
Props to you, evil grandma.
“No, of course not. It’s a metaphor!” Sylus snaps, releasing my hips to run his hands through his hair, dusting the strands in flour. “Don’t you people have any sense of drama? It was in her recipe book, where recipes belong, but the whole book is gone. I tried to help her recreate it this morning, but, ugh, don’t look at me like that! Look, we don’t care about the rest, but the biscotti one’s been in her family for generations. It’s the best in all of Tuscany. People died to get a biscotto from her, Ric!”
Ace gives him a long, unimpressed stare.
“I’m sure someone died,” Sylus mutters with a shrug.
Ezra sighs. “If it’s that old and precious, how come she hasn’t memorized it?”
“She’s an eighty-year-old woman who sometimes forgets her last name. What do you want from her, Ez? And here I thought we were a family. That we had each other’s backs.”
