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Shit, I almost forgot we weren’t alone. The flush that creeps up my neck is hotter than the pizza, and I have to restrain myself from bolting out of the kitchen right then and there.
Holy fuck, what do I do now?
Stay cool, Soph. You’re the nanny, the nanny. Just focus on the kid.
Pretending nothing happened, I return my focus to Yulia. She is cheerfully hacking away at her own creation – a star-shaped pizza that looks like it’s been through a war.
“Yulia, you’re a natural,” I tell her, unable to stop the chuckle escaping my lips. The poor pizza looks like it’s been attacked by a pack of hungry wolves.
Yulia beams at me, her face smeared with a mix of flour and tomato sauce. “I know, right? I’m going to be a pizza chef when I grow up!”
I take a moment to absorb the strange little situation I’ve found myself in. To all intents and purposes, this kitchen scene could be plucked straight out of a family sitcom – not a mafia household. It’s surreal.
Satisfied with the amount of ingredients and cheese she’s added to her pizza, Yulia triumphantly marches her cheese-smothered star creation over to Dimitri.
“Dima, look!” She thrusts it toward Dimitri like a trophy won in battle. I can’t help but grin at the earnestness in her voice.
Mafia princess by day, pizza chef by night. Why the hell not?
Dimitri, built like a damn Spartan and looking like he just stepped off a Men’s Health cover, is manning the pizza oven with sweat glistening off his muscles. I feel my face flush at the sight of him.
Or is it the memory that has me trying to hide in a hole? It’s almost hard to believe that the man standing there, cradling Yulia’s star-studded pizza with a tenderness that doesn’t fit his Herculean build, is the same man whose pants I had my hand down the other night to retrieve those damn microchips…
Get a grip, Sophia. Stop visualizing and breathe, woman.
Trying to keep my cool, I intentionally stare down at the glistening pizza, fighting the urge to glance in his direction. The anxiety bubbling inside me is worse than any oven-baked cheese.
Fuck! What if he recognizes me?
My heart is hammering in my chest like a jackhammer.
I’ll be so dead if he recognizes me.
My gaze flits to Dimitri, apprehension clawing at me. Does he remember the false name I’d fed him at that godforsaken party? But his gaze, cool and aloof, offers no indication of recognition.
Okay, maybe he doesn’t remember Sonia Brown, the server, after all. A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding rushes out from my mouth.
The nod Dimitri sends Yulia, accompanied by his deep-chested, “Otlichno, Yulia,” leaves me utterly clueless. But the way Yulia’s face lights up, I figure it must mean something along the lines of “fucking awesome.”
“Oh, we gave our kitchen staff the day off,” Luka announces, the casual nonchalance in his voice throwing me off balance. “You’ll get to meet them tomorrow.”
“Kitchen…staff?” I parrot, incredulity pitching my voice higher.
There was a whole staff for this kitchen? For cooking?
He sweeps a hand around the luxurious kitchen, emphasizing his point. “Marco, he’s a whiz with pasta – six fingers on his left hand. Great for kneading dough. Born with it.”
The mental image of a six-fingered pasta maestro is nothing short of bizarre, but I merely nod, doing my best to look unfazed.
“And then there’s Paolo. The man’s a magician with sauces. His Bolognese? Legendary. And finally, Chef Antonio. Head honcho in this circus. Found him in a family-run eatery in Rome when he was sixteen. Makes Pelmeni that could make a grown man weep.”
“Sixteen?” I repeat, stunned. The casual reveal leaves me grappling with the sheer magnitude of their wealth.
“That’s right,” Luka affirms, a smug grin playing on his lips. Clearly, he’s delighting in my flabbergasted reaction. “You’ll need to meet them tomorrow,” he clarifies with an air of authority that brings me back to the gravity of the situation. “You need to be familiar with them to ensure Yulia’s meals are taken care of.”
“Yes-yes, sir,” I reply.
Tomorrow. The word slams into me like a tidal wave. The fury and shock of the realization that I’m stuck here in this circus of culinary mobsters momentarily steal my breath. But beneath that, the fear festers, whispering reminders of the danger I’m in, robbing me of any comfort.
