“Your mouth, Sophia,” I groan. She’s so fucking warm, wet, soft. It’s been weeks since I’ve been inside her, and I can’t help but come quickly deep in the back of her throat. She sputters and coughs, cum and spit and water dribbling down her chin.
She sits back on her heels and clasps her hands in her lap, her gaze down. I run my palm over her wet hair, and she leans forward, pressing her cheek against my thigh with a soft sigh.
Always my good girl.
20
SOPHIE
Holy wow. Vin’s kitchen is incredible. I’ve never seen a home kitchen quite like it: 12-foot ceilings, commercial-grade range with eight burners, a wood-burning oven built into the far wall. Copper pots hang from a rack above a marble island worn smooth, and a window on the side wall looks out over grayish water.
It is, without question, the most beautiful kitchen I have ever stood in.
I hate that I love it immediately.
“Chi sei?”
Who are you?I turn in time to see an older woman materialize from the pantry. She’s maybe in her seventies, small and dense, with silver hair pinned back harshly. Her eyes are black withsuspicion and she wields a wooden spoon like she might use it on me. I remember Vin’s stories about Lucia and growing up in her kitchen, the safety she provided him and Tommy. I wonder if this is her.
“Sophia Bellamorte,” I say. I’m wearing one of Vin’s t-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants. Both are huge on me, and I’m sure I look a little insane to her. “I’m a friend of Vincenzo’s. I’m making him something to eat.”
“No,” she says, flatly.
“Sí.” I cross to the refrigerator and open it without asking. “He hasn’t eaten properly in days. He needs something his stomach can handle. Do you have eggs?”
“Of course I have eggs, but you no cook the eggs for anyone,” the woman snaps, offended. “This is my kitchen.”
“I know, but Vin is my friend.” I close the refrigerator and meet her angry gaze. “I’m going to be respectful of your space, I promise you. I would never disrespect another woman’s kitchen. You’re Lucia, yes?”
She doesn’t respond, but her eyes brighten for a moment when I say her name. But only for a moment. She moves past me to a basket of eggs on the counter and shoves them in my direction without taking her eyes off me.
As I put a pan on the stove, Lucia watches. I ask her questions—where to find utensils, what bowls she’d like me to use—and she begins to relax.
“I am with the Demonio family for 51 years,” she says haughtily.
“Wonderful,” I say, whisking eggs in a metal bowl. “You must have seen so much.”
“Longer than you are alive,” she points out.
“That’s true,” I agree, pouring the eggs into the hot pan.
She grunts and adjusts the flame under the burner. I let her, washing the bowl I whisked eggs in, careful to put it back exactly where I got it.
“Where do you keep the hazelnut liqueur?”
She eyes me for a minute, I’m sure wondering what that has to do with eggs, and waves a hand toward an upper cabinet.
I climb a short step ladder that I’m sure Lucia uses regularly—she’s short like I am—and when I place the liqueur bottle on the counter, I notice a small jar. I hold it up to her.
“These truffles,” I say. ”Are these from Umbria?”
Something shifts in her face. “Alba.”
“White?”
“Of course white.” But there’s a flicker of both pride and respect that crosses her face in a split second.
“They’re extraordinary.” I set them back carefully, exactly where they were. “They had the perfect flavor balance to a risotto. Vin would love that.”
