Steam curled upward between us carrying garlic, cream, wine, basil.
“It made me feel…” She shrugged lightly. “Normal.”
The word sat strangely in my chest. Nothing about my world was normal. Least of all her standing barefoot in my kitchen wearing my clothes while making dinner for me like some spoiled little mafia princess pretending she wasn’t my prisoner.
And yet I couldn’t stop staring at her. At the curve of her calves. The elegant line of her throat. The way those blue eyes focused so carefully while she cooked. Beautiful.
I leaned against the counter slowly and watched her move around the kitchen. She cooked confidently, instinctively. No hesitation. No fear. Just graceful certainty.
“I didn’t expect you to know how to do this,” I admitted.
A tiny smile touched her mouth. “There are lots of things people don’t expect from me.”
I believed that now. When she finally plated the food and set it in front of me, the smell alone nearly distracted me. Fresh pasta coated in creamy sauce with herbs and parmesan melting across the top. I took a bite expecting decent. Instead, I froze.
Chiara noticed. “What?”
The pasta was rich and sharp and buttery all at once. Fucking incredible.
“This is…” I took another bite slowly. “Unexpected.”
A smug little smile curved her lips. “That means good.”
“It means my chef should be nervous,” I muttered.
She laughed softly. Christ. That sound was becoming addictive.
I sat across from her while evening slowly darkened the windows around us. Chiara tucked one leg beneath herself in the chair, absently twirling pasta around her fork while strands of blonde hair escaped around her face. She looked younger tonight. Softer. Less like my hostage. More like temptation.
I set my fork down carefully. “How was the call?”
The warmth faded from her expression. “I miss them.”
Not her Papa. Her siblings.
“Aurora cried,” she admitted quietly. “Sienna kept asking when I’m coming home.” Her voice softened even more at the mention of Matteo. “And Matteo threatened to kill you.”
A quiet laugh rumbled through my chest. “I’m devastated your twelve year old brother wants me dead.”
She rolled her eyes faintly, but sadness still lingered there beneath the gesture.
The soft lighting above the kitchen island caught against the diamond on her finger again, throwing fractured sparks across the marble between us.
My ring. Still there. Something dark and possessive tightened in my chest all over again.
The penthouse felt different tonight. Smaller somehow. Warmer. The scent of cream sauce and wine still lingered in the air while soft music drifted low from hidden speakers overhead. Outside the windows, darkness swallowed the skyline, the glass reflecting us back at ourselves instead.
Chiara looked tiny sitting across from me. Tiny and exhausted. She’d curled one leg beneath herself in the chair at some point, my black shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder now. The sightof smooth pale skin nearly distracted me from the conversation entirely.
Christ. I wanted her.
Not the casual kind of wanting I was used to. Not some quick fix to satisfy a craving. This felt uglier than that. Possessive and deeply consuming.
I wanted to drag her into my lap and keep her there. Wanted her scent soaked into my sheets permanently. Wanted her wearing my clothes every night while carrying my last name and my child like she’d been fucking made for it. The intensity of it almost irritated me.
Chiara finally looked up from her plate, blue eyes softer now than they’d been all day.
“What?” she asked quietly. I realized I’d been staring. My gaze dropped slowly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.
