When five o’clock rolls around, I start layering the pasta sheets with béchamel and ragù. It’s a comforting, predictable routine. Every small step pushes back the chaos in my head.
By the time the lasagna goes into the oven, the entire kitchen smells like my childhood. Like safer days. Sunday mornings when Mom still had the strength to stand next to me and pretend she wasn’t teaching me how to make her mother’s recipe.
I wipe my hands on a towel, suddenly nervous.
I hope he likes it.
God, what am I doing? Who cooks their way through a crisis like this?
Before I can spiral any further, I hear the front door open downstairs.
His voice follows. It’s low, giving Valerio some instruction I don’t catch. Then footsteps.
My heart pounds, and not in the fainting way. More like theoh god oh god oh godway.
He appears in the doorway, coat still on, hair a little windswept, eyes landing on me like he did not expect to find me here, at his stove, cooking his food.
I almost think I’ve fucked up, but then I see it: his pupils, widening just a little as the scent of reaches him.
His brows lift a fraction. “You cooked.”
I swallow. “It’s, um… your usual. From Notte Bianca.”
He walks closer. His eyes flick from the oven to me. “You remembered.”
Heat rushes up my neck. “I mean… you order it a lot.”
“Not anymore,” he says, lips curling in a smile. “Tonight I have the original.”
That shouldn’t make my stomach flip the way it does.
He shrugs off his coat, draping it over a chair, and loosens the top buttons of his shirt. I look away before my brain finishes appreciating the view.
The timer beeps. I pull the lasagna out of the oven, the cheese bubbling at the edges, steam rising in perfect waves. Riccardo steps closer, inhaling deeply like he can’t help himself.
“That,” he murmurs, “is the best thing I’ve smelled in days.”
I smile into the steam, stupidly pleased.
We plate the food and end up at the long wooden table near the windows. The villa is quiet. The lighting is warm. Riccardo opens a bottle of red wine, something expensive and probably older than I am. He pours for both of us without asking.
We eat in silence at first. The good kind. His expression stays unreadable, but the way he closes his eyes after the first bite tells me everything.
“You should open your own place,” he says after a bit.
I laugh softly. “With what money?”
“That won’t be an issue.”
There it is again. That effortless certainty. That promise tucked inside his voice. Like he’s already decided he’ll take care of me after this, too. Once I’ve recovered and beyond that.
I sip the wine to distract myself. It’s rich and smooth and tastes like something meant for celebrations, not awkward half-dates with mafia Dons.
The wordmafiadrops into my thoughts before I can stop it.
I set the glass down. “Can I ask you something?”
Riccardo looks up immediately. “Anything.”
