“This is Sunday sauce,” he replies. “There are rules.”
“I love her,” Violette says to no one in particular. “She mocks men with knives. Keep her, Enzo.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Enzo replies smoothly, his voice warm.
I try not to smile, but I do.
“Okay,” Lars says, eyeing the pot like it might insult his ancestors. “Now taste it. Tell me what’s missing.”
I grab a spoon and dip it in the pot, blowing before I taste it. “Salt?”
Lars does the same. After sampling it, his head tilts. “Yes, salt. What else?”
I think for a moment, not being able to pinpoint the missing ingredient. I decide to take another taste. As I lower the spoon to the sauce again, he slaps my wrist—light, but firm. “Nope. Taste with a clean spoon. Jesus. Who raised you?”
“Apparently no one with mafia etiquette,” I mutter, grabbing a tasting spoon from the dish beside the stove.
“It’s acidic. Maybe sugar?”
He smiles with pride. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”
He grabs a canister from the counter and drops a couple spoonfuls into the simmering liquid, stirring. Clockwise, of course. After a few moments, he hands me a spoon and we try it again.
“Oh my God. That’s ridiculous.”
“Right?” Lars smirks. “Better than sex.”
I arch a brow. “That’s a bold statement.”
“Maybe for Lars it is,” Enzo says from behind me, voice dropping a note. “But I’d argue otherwise.”
I glance back at him, already grinning. “Would you like to weigh in, Mr. Marchetti?”
“I’d like a taste.”
I grab another spoon, scoop a bit of the sauce, and hold it out toward him. “Don’t be dramatic.”
He doesn’t break eye contact. He steps forward, takes the spoon into his mouth slowly—obscenely—and groans.
“Oh my God,” Lars mutters, grabbing a towel and snapping it in our direction. “I swear to God, if you two start dry-humping next to my sauce, I’m walking out.”
“You say that like it would stop me,” I tease.
Enzo’s arm slides around my waist, warm and possessive. “We’ll finish this in private later.”
“You’ll finish nothing until the garlic bread’s done,” Lars says, waving a spatula. “Hands off the help.”
Violette tips her martini glass in our direction. “This family. Just warms my fucking heart.”
Standing in a kitchen filled with heat, banter, and the smell of garlic and tomatoes reminds me of my childhood. When my father wasn’t wicked, when my mother’s voice filled our home. My chest aches with mourning over that life.
For a moment, my thoughts drift to Kelly. A small part of me feels like I should reach out to her. We haven’t spoken since my brother’s death and I’m sure she’s reeling in the aftermath. I breathe deep, washing away the thought. I’m no longer a Kavanagh, and even though we were close at one time, I have left that family and name behind. Abandoned it for true love and people who love me right back.
I lean back against Enzo’s chest, returning to the moment, watching the little domestic circus swirl around me. Violette in silk pajamas and diamonds like she’s hosting a red carpet afterparty. Lars cooking with terrifying intensity. Enzo practically purring behind me like a smug jungle cat. And somehow, I fit.
“You’re smiling,” Enzo’s voice rumbles near my ear.
“Am I?” I ask.
