Did he really put a guard at the door?I roll my eyes, push down my irritation, and move on.
As I make my way down the hall, I pass through a long gallery lined with oil paintings that look like they belong in the Louvre. Silent, judgmental stares from solemn ancestors, whose eyes carry the same cold green as Damiano's, follow my every step.
To call this a house is laughable. This place is a castle—a monument of stolen power and blood.
I make my way downstairs, past what looks like two massive living areas, until I finally find a kitchen. It dazzles with soaring ceilings, a grand marble island, custom wood cabinetry, and gleaming top-of-the-line appliances, all bathed in the moonlight spilling from the skylight.
I hobble towards the refrigerator and pull the door open, the bright LED light blinding me for a painful second. The hum of the refrigerator motor suddenly feels too loud, so I grab a bottle of water, push the door shut, and turn around.
"Jesus!" I gasp, nearly dropping the bottle.
Damiano is standing right there, leaning against the central marble island, watching me in the dark. He is dressed only in black silk pajama pants, his feet bare, and his chest exposed.
The moonlight catches the angry line of the bullet scar on his right shoulder, highlighting the corded muscle and the intricate tattoos that cover his skin. He looks like a predator, waiting patiently for the right moment to attack his prey.
"Hungry?" he asks, his voice husky as if he just got out of bed. I clutch the water bottle to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"You scared me. Do you always haunt your own hallways at midnight?"
"Only when my guests decide to go for a wander at the wee hours of the night," he says, his gaze scanning me from head to toe.
"Sit down, before you fall," he says after a beat.
I don't have the strength to argue, so I slide onto one of the barstools and watch him.
He doesn't call a maid or ring a silver bell for service. He moves toward the pantry with ease and pulls out a box of artisanal pasta, a carton of eggs, and a slab of guanciale.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Making you something worth the effort of walking down those stairs," he says, his back to me as he sets a pot of water to boil. "Carbonara. It was the only thing that made you eat when you were recovering from the accident."
The accident.
The memory of how we cared for me for weeks after pulling me out of that wreck hits me. He didn’t need to be there, but every day he would show up at the hospital. He would feed me and make me laugh to make sure I didn’t die of boredom or depression. Then, when Sol suggested we pretend the accident was a love spat, he agreed without a second thought. He did all that for me, and yet he would never admit he cared for me more than a friend.
Was it because he knew that if I found out about his true identity, he thought I’d run? Or am I just kidding myself, thinking he must feel something more?
I watch him in stunned silence. There is something profoundly surreal about seeing a man who apparently commands an army of bad people standing over a stove. I watch as he handles the kitchen knife with terrifying precision, dicing the meat into perfect, uniform cubes, and try hard not to imagine him doing horrible things with those same hands.
When he moves on, the sound of the whisk against the bowl as he mixes the egg yolks and pecorino is loud but comforting. Soon, the smell begins to fill the kitchen—salty, rich, and intoxicatingly savory. It makes my stomach growl loudly.
He slides a warm porcelain bowl in front of me when he’s done. The pasta is glossy, coated in a rich, golden sauce, and flecked with freshly cracked black pepper. He pours a glass of white wine and sets it down beside the plate. Then he stands there, arms crossed over his tattooed chest.
I stare at him in confusion.
“Are you not gonna eat?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
I grab the fork and twirl it on the pasta before taking a bite. It’s perfect. It tastes so good, I could cry.
After I swallow the second bite, the quiet becomes uncomfortable. So I take a sip of the wine and look at him.
"Why?" I ask.
"Why what?" he asks, confused.
"Why help me? You said you’re a criminal. You run criminal activities, you—you kill people..." I set the fork down, the weight of the walls around us suddenly feeling suffocating.
"And why dotheywant me? Why would the Mafia care about a random woman from Argentina?"
