I’ll burn the world to have him.
But I don’t know how to begin.
Chapter Two
Juliet
Everyone’s off tonight, which means it’s time for a Vitaly debrief.
And also pasta.
I’m make stuffed shells.
Not because I’m trying to cosplay a Stepford nightmare or because I’m secretly harboring a Betty Crocker kink.
No.
I do it because my men are apex predators with trauma and cravings.
And I keep them fed and worshipped.
Because they’re perfect.
Because I take care of what’s mine.
Also because they’ve all been doing their part to help me assess our newest acquisition and that burns calories.
Emotional and physical.
That requires carbs and dairy, with a side of garlic bread.
Pasta is peace.
Pasta is power.
It’s also a metaphor that Elliot will appreciate.
They keep me stuffed; I keep them stuffed.
Also?
Callum’s been edging with hints that he got intel at the bakery.
I want the dirt.
And if he doesn’t give it to me voluntarily, I’ll stab him in the thigh with a salad fork and make him beg to confess between bites.
The table’s set.
Wine poured. White for the fragile, red for the damaged.
The shells?
Perfect. Obviously.
Everything I touch bends to my will.
Eventually.
