Because I made sure it would be. Because I've been perfecting this recipe for seven years just in case I ever got the chance to make it for you again.
"Good."
"Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Nowhere. Everywhere. I taught myself because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn't thinking about you, needed some way to feel close to you when I was trying so hard to stay away.
"Picked it up."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting. Eat."
She rolls her eyes but keeps eating, and I watch her for a second longer than I should. The way she closes her eyes because it tastes good. The way her shoulders relax for the first time all night. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat that goes straight to my dick.
Like pleasure. Like relief.
I look away and focus on my own plate, which turns out to be impossible when she's sitting three feet away making thosesounds that are systematically destroying what's left of my self-control.
We eat in silence. The only sound is our forks on the plates and her quiet noises of appreciation that I'm going to be hearing in my head for days.
"I love this," she says softly.
I know. You used to eat it every week when, drove Matteo insane with your obsession. Matteo complained constantly.
"It's just pasta."
"No." She sets her fork down and looks at me. Really looks at me, in a way that makes me feel exposed. "I mean—there was this place in Little Italy when I was younger. They made it exactly like this. I went every week for months."
"Matteo mentioned it.” I keep my voice neutral.
"He did?" She looks surprised, her eyebrows lifting in a way that's almost vulnerable. "He used to get so annoyed with me. Said I was wasting my time going to the same restaurant over and over."
"He talks, I listen. It's not a big deal."
"About me?"
"About everything."
She studies me. Closely and carefully like she's trying to read something I'm not saying, trying to find the truth I'm hiding. Then she picks up her fork again and continues eating.
The silence gets heavier, more charged, like the air before lightning strikes.
I finish my pasta and bring my plate to the sink, aware of every movement when she follows and sets hers beside mine, aware of how we're standing too close, how the kitchen suddenly feels too small for both of us.
"Enzo?"
I hum. Low in my throat.
"Those men tonight." Her voice is quiet and controlled in that way that means she's anything but. "The ones you killed. Do you know who they were?"
"O'Rourke's men."
"I know that. But did you recognize any of them?"
"No."
"So, you don't know if any of them were—" She stops, can't finish, and I know exactly what she's asking.
