Page 162 of Brutal Heir

I smirked as I moved to the cabinets and pulled out a deep skillet and a pot for the pasta. “Close. It’s guanciale. You Americans always screw it up and use bacon.”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s cured pork cheek.”

Her nose scrunched adorably. “Gross.”

Ignoring her dramatics, I reached for a bottle of crisp white wine, uncorked it with a practiced twist, and poured two glasses.

I slid one toward her. “You’ll try it and like it, little one.”

She hesitated before taking a slow sip. “Okay,” she conceded. “But after this, I’m leaving.”

I bit back a smirk and filled a large pot with water, then set it to boil on the stove. “We’ll see.”

As I placed the guanciale onto a cutting board, I continued. “While this is the quintessential Roman pasta dish, its origins are disputed. Some think it was created by charcoal makers—carbonari means ‘charcoal makers’ in Italian.”

Sabrina, despite herself, leaned forward slightly as I sliced the guanciale into thick, meaty strips and slid them into the heated skillet.

The fat sizzled immediately, releasing a rich, smoky aroma.

I grabbed a wedge of Pecorino Romano from the counter and held it out to her. “Grate this.”

She accepted the cheese with a sigh and started grating. “The black specks from the pepper are supposed to be the coal dust, right?”

I nodded, stirring the sizzling pork. “Exactly.”

She kept grating. And grating. “Is this enough yet?”

I barely glanced over. “No, keep grating.”

She huffed but obeyed.

“Another theory is that Roman trattoria owners made it for American soldiers after the war to satisfy their craving for bacon and eggs.”

“That sounds silly,” she muttered. “They could’ve just made the soldiers some scrambled eggs.”

I chuckled, reaching for a bowl to crack fresh eggs into. “My thoughts exactly. My favorite theory is that it was the signature dish of a secret society, also named the Carbonari.”

She paused mid-grate then shot me a look. “You would like that version.”

I smirked as I whisked the eggs. “It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”

The water had reached a rolling boil. I tossed in a generous handful of salt before adding the pasta, then I stirred to keep it from sticking.

Sabrina stopped grating and flexed her fingers. “Now?”

I examined the pile of cheese. “That’ll do.”

Satisfied, she set the grater down and rubbed her hand, but I could see the curiosity in her eyes as she watched me cook.

I combined the frothy eggs with the finely grated Pecorino, forming a thick, creamy mixture.

I lifted a spoonful of the sauce and held it out to her. “Taste.”

She hesitated, her lips parting slightly before she leaned forward, wrapping them around the spoon. She hummed as she withdrew, her tongue flicking over her lower lip, then she licked the tip of her finger where a bit of sauce had dripped.

Hunger coiled in my gut.