"She taught Eva, too," I said, needing to fill the charged silence. "My sister loved to cook. Sunday dinners were sacred in our house. Didn't matter what business was happening—Sunday afternoon, we were at the table. Nonna's gravy simmering for six hours, homemade cavatelli, braciole if we were lucky."
"We had Sunday dinners too," Valentina said softly. "I remember the smell of the gravy cooking all day. My father would actually smile on Sundays. Like he was a different person."
"That's what the old ways did. Reminded us we were family before we were business." I plated the omelets. "Eva wanted to open a restaurant someday. Reclaim the good parts of our culture without the violence attached to it."
Valentina reached across the space between us, found my hand. "Tell me about her. Not how she died. Who she was."
So I did. Told her about Eva's terrible singing, her two a.m. dessert experiments, how she'd practice tiramisu recipes until she got the ratio perfect.
Valentina listened like it mattered. Like my grief mattered. Like I mattered beyond the blood debt binding us.
Later, as we cleaned dishes side by side, her fingers found the scar along my ribs—visible where my shirt had pulled up.
"This one?" she asked softly, tracing it slowly.
"Knife fight. I was twenty-two." I covered her hand with mine, holding it against the damaged skin. "Stupid. Reckless."
She traced another scar on my forearm. And another on my shoulder. Each one a story, a survival, a piece of the man I'd become.
I let her. Didn't pull away. Just watched her map my history with careful fingers.
"Someday," I said quietly, "when this is over, I'll make you a real Sunday gravy. The way Nonna taught me. Six-hour simmer, the whole ritual."
"I'd like that," she whispered. "The good parts of where we come from, without all the blood."
"Exactly."
By the end of the first week, something had shifted.
We weren't captor and captive anymore. We were two people choosing to know each other, despite every reason not to.
Small things had become natural. Morning coffee. The way we moved around each other without collision. How we'd gravitate to sitting together in the evenings, our feet occasionally touching in the middle.
His hand, finding mine, had stopped being a conscious decision. Our fingers would lace together automatically, and neither of us questioned it anymore.
One evening, I found her in the kitchen, long legs bare beneath one of my button-downs. She was reaching for a mug on the top shelf, shirt riding up to reveal smooth thighs and a glimpse of black lace panties. I paused in the doorway, blood heating at the sight.
"Can't sleep?" I asked, leaning against the frame.
She jumped, mug clattering to the counter. "Jesus, Alessio. You scared me."
I crossed to her, reached past her to grab the mug.
My chest pressed against her back for just a moment. Close enough to feel her sharp intake of breath.
"Here." I set the mug on the counter beside her, but didn't step back.
"Thanks." Her voice came out breathy. She didn't move either.
The kettle clicked off. I reached out, steadied her wrist—just my fingers on her pulse point, feeling it race.
"Careful," I murmured. "Don't want you to burn yourself."
My hand slid from her wrist to her hip—ostensibly to move her aside for the honey behind her.
Her breath hitched when my palm settled against the curve of her hip. Just my hand on thin cotton and bare skin underneath.
I grabbed the honey, but my hand lingered. Thumb stroking once against her hipbone—there and gone.
