Chopping is almost therapeutic in its familiarity. It’s exactly the kind my hands know by heart, even in this unfamiliar space. The normalcy feels like slipping into a favorite sweater after months of wearing stiff, formal clothes.
I’m so absorbed in slicing bell peppers that I don’t hear Raffaele enter until he’s right behind me, his presence like a physical touch against my bare shoulders.
“Do you need help?” His voice is low, intimate in the kitchen’s vastness.
I glance over my shoulder, taking him in. He’s freshly showered, water still clinging to his black hair. He’s barefoot and dressed in casual linen pants and an unbuttoned shirt that reveals the tattooed expanse of his chest.
Will I ever get used to seeing him like this, or will it always disarm me? Raffaele in a suit is devastating, but without one is… everything.
“You can open the wine,” I suggest, nodding toward the bottle I’d selected from the impressive collection.
He moves with fluid grace, retrieving glasses from a cabinet while I return to my chopping. The rhythmic sound of my knife against the cutting board mingles with the soft pop of the cork being freed. For a moment, we exist in comfortable silence, each focused on our tasks.
“What can I do with these?” he asks, appearing at my side with two glasses of deep red wine. He sets mine within reach before surveying the ingredients spread across the counter.
“You can season the steaks,” I tell him, surprised by my own boldness in directing him. “There’s salt and pepper there, and that herb mixture I made.”
Our domesticity feels surreal. Raffaele Russo, feared collector for the Russo crime family, following my instructions on how to season meat. But he does it without hesitation, his strong hands working the seasonings into the flesh with surprising delicacy.
“Like this?” he asks, and I’m struck by the genuine question in his voice, the absence of his usual commanding tone.
“Perfect.” I nod, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex with each movement, the dark ink of his tattoos shifting like living shadows beneath his skin.
We move around each other in the kitchen with increasing ease, my body somehow knowing where his will be, anticipating his movements. When he reaches past me for the olive oil, his chest brushes against my back, sending warmth cascading down my spine.
Our fingers touch as we transfer the salad to a serving bowl, a fleeting contact that feels more intimate than it should.
The steaks sizzle as they hit the hot pan, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma that mingles with the scent of fresh herbs and the sea breeze drifting through the open doors.
Raffaele stands beside me, watching intently as I flip the meat, his proximity making my skin prickle with awareness.
“You know what you’re doing,” he observes, taking a sip of his wine.
I smile, relaxing into the familiar routine. “I used to cook with my mom all the time. And when she got sick, I took over completely.” The memory brings a bittersweet ache, but it doesn’t overwhelm me as it once did. “This is the first time I’ve cooked since…”
“Since I collected you,” he finishes, his voice soft but matter-of-fact.
I nod, focusing on the steaks to avoid meeting his eyes. “I’ve missed it.”
His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. “Then we’ll make sure you have plenty of opportunities to cook, if that’s what you want.”
The simple consideration in his words touches me more deeply than any of the extravagant gifts or experiences of the past days.
Once everything is ready, and I’ve added feta and a few other last-minute decisions to the salad, Raffaele carries our plates outside while I bring the salad and wine.
We settle at the terrace table, the setting sun casting long golden shadows across the stone floor. The ocean stretches before us, a darkening canvas painted with the fiery colors of sunset.
“This looks incredible,” Raffaele says, eyeing the perfectly cooked steak with appreciation.
I wait, watching nervously as he takes his first bite. The look of pleasure that crosses his face sends satisfaction blooming through my chest.
“Delicious,” he confirms, reaching for my hand across the table. His thumb traces circles on my palm, a habit I’ve come to cherish. “Did your mom teach you to cook like this?”
“Kind of,” I answer, relaxing as we fall into easy conversation. “She believed anyone could follow a recipe, but real cooking came from understanding flavors and textures. We couldn’t always afford the best ingredients, but she knew how to make simple things taste special.”
He hums his appreciation, which makes me smile.
As we eat, our conversation drifts from topic to topic. He tells me about the island’s history and his plans to take me snorkeling tomorrow.
