Page 58 of Control
I scoff, shaking my head as I grab a pan and set it on the stove. “Oh, absolutely. Nothing gets me hotter than outdated gender roles and a personality straight out of a villain handbook.”
He moves closer, looming just enough for his presence to press against me without touching. Most people would crumble under the weight of it, but I don’t flinch.
“Go sit down, Remo,” I say, not even bothering to look at him. “And don’t interrupt me until the food’s done.”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of a chair as he pulls one out and sits at the small kitchen table.
I start pulling ingredients from the shelves: canned tomatoes, olive oil, dried herbs. The pantry isn’t exactly gourmet, but I’ve made do with worse. The knife feels good in my hand as I slice through an onion, the rhythm grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected.
“You cook often?” he asks.
His question catches me off guard.
“Not as much as I’d like to,” I admit, keeping my focus on the chopping. “I used to cook with my mom, though. Every Sunday, without fail.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for me to name it.
“Your mother.” His tone is careful. Like he’s walking a tightrope. “She taught you?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. She always said you could tell a lot about someone by how they cooked.” I glance at him, my knife stilling for a moment. “What about you? Ever cook?”
He snorts, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Not unless you count burning toast.”
The image of Remo, this tall, intimidating enforcer, standing over a smoking toaster almost makes me smile.
“Figures,” I say, shaking my head. “You probably don’t have the patience for it.”
“Patience isn’t my strong suit.”
The air shifts slightly, the mood between us thinning just enough to breathe. I stir the onions in the pan, their sharp, sweet scent filling the room. For a moment, it feels…normal.
Just then, the door swings open, and Marco steps in, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. He’s holding a bag of flour in his hands, his fingers dusted with flour.
“What’s this?” he asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.
“Cooking lesson,” I say without looking up. “You want in?”
He grins—a rare sight that softens the hard lines of his face. “I’ll pass. But here.” He holds it out and then whispers, “And again, sorry for keeping you waiting. Just don’t tell Remo I used the previous bag to bake pastries in my spare time. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
I laugh despite myself. Marco, with his hulking frame and perpetually scowling face, kneading bread like a disgruntled baker. It’s absurd.
“You bake?”
He shrugs. “Keeps me busy. Plus, it’s better than listening to these idiots argue over card games.”
Remo doesn’t react, but I catch the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.
“Let me guess,” I say, slicing into the meat. “You make sourdough in your free time too?”
Marco snorts. “Don’t push it, Volpi.”
I raise my hand in mock surrender. “I just didn’t expect you to be so domestic.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it. He leans against the counter, watching as I knead the dough into something resembling order.
“You two done yet?” Remo’s voice cuts through the moment, irritated.
“Relax,” Marco says, smirking. “I’m just here for quality control.”
