"Cinnamon butterFrench toast," he corrects.
"My mother would have an aneurysm if she saw the amount of butter you just put in that bowl," I say.
“You weren’t allowed to have butter?” he asks.
"No butter, no chocolate, no pasta, no bread," I say. "We were only allowed to eat salads, sprouts, and tiny portions of meat. And for dinner, we were given an egg."
"A whole egg?" His eyes widen.
"Yeah, can you believe it?"
“I have an idea,” he says. “We should spend a whole day eatingonlyher restricted food.”
"A whole day of bread, butter, and chocolate?" I ask.
"We could make a day of it," he says. "It would be fun."
I lean my hip against the counter and watch him make breakfast. I wasn't hungry before, but the smell of butter and cinnamon is irresistible. He stacks fluffy pieces of French toast on a plate.
"Would you like some coffee?" he asks.
I'm about to say no, but maybe it's time I try new things. I need to figure out who I am now that I'm no longer in my mother's shadow.
“Sure,” I say.
"I'm about to change your life," he says. "My French toast pairs perfectly with coffee."
He places a moka pot on the stove. Within seconds, the warm aroma of roasted coffee fills the air.
The conversation we had earlier today is still fresh in my head. Something he said had made me curious. While talking about Don Savastano, he said something very specific.
He knew the names of the two people who killed my parents.
It could be nothing, but he used the word “parents” instead of “family.” Now that I think about it, he never said that his sister was dead.
It makes me wonder if she’s still out there somewhere.
I want to ask him about it, but I've already asked him too much.
The only reason he probably shared anything with me is because he feels bad for me. He's just a good man in a wicked world. And for whatever reason, he feels empathetic toward me.
"Come on, princess," he says, bringing the plates to the breakfast table.
He pulls my chair out for me and then sits across from me.
"You're acting funny again," he says. "What's going on?”
"Nothing," I say.
"I won't let you eat my world-famous French toast until you tell me what it is," he says.
"Are you being nice to me because you feel bad for me?" I ask.
I feel silly saying the words out loud, but I know it's going to eat away at me until I get an answer.
"It's not that complicated, Grace," he says. "I like you. I don't make my world-famous French toast for just anybody."
"So it's not pity?" I ask.
