"Don't get me wrong. I would love nothing more than to snap your mother's neck for the things she put you through, but that doesn't have anything to do with why I fancy you."
"You fancy me?" I ask, a slow smile spreading across my face.
"I fetched a diamond ring from the ocean for you," he says.
"You don't get credit for that. I know it was Enzo who got the ring," I say.
"You're the only woman I ever let into my home," he says. “You're also the only woman I ever made breakfast for."
The butterflies are back again. And this time, they're not contained to my stomach.
I don't know what we're doing.
We're playing house. We're acting like a normal couple, when that couldn't be further from the truth.
But maybe I don't have to over-analyze everything. I just need to enjoy the moment for what it is. Not everything is life and death.
The front door opens, and Enzo steps inside the house.
"Is that your world-famous French toast I smell?" he calls out.
"Yes, grab a plate and leave us alone," Dante says.
Enzo nods at me as he walks toward the kitchen. I smile back at him.
He returns with a cup of coffee and a stack of French toast.
"I have dreams about this breakfast sometimes," he says, taking it to the couch and turning on the TV. “I don’t know what he adds to the butter that makes it taste so good. The secret ingredient is probably cocaine.”
Dante gestures toward my plate. “Eat before Enzo devours everything.”
"I heard that," Enzo calls out.
"I wasn't whispering," Dante says.
I've never been more curious about a dish before. I cut a bite-sized chunk and place it inside my mouth.
"It's very good," I say, nodding in surprise. "I can tell why it's world famous."
Dante seems pleased that I like it. We eat in silence for a few minutes.
I reach for the coffee mug beside me.
"Your mother should receive the electric chair just for depriving you of coffee,” he says.
I'm smiling as I take a sip. He added a splash of milk, but there's no sugar in the drink. At first, it's all bitter, but the richness of the beverage goes straight to my head.
And he's right. It goes perfectly with the sweet breakfast.
"Would it hurt your feelings if I said it was better than your French toast?" I say.
"I would never recover," he says.
"It's almost as good, then," I say, placing the cup down and looking at the man before me.
He said that hefanciesme.
My feelings are growing at an exponential rate. The light from the window hits his eyes, making them look like warm honey. I'm starting to get used to the slow mornings and this warm glow in my chest.
