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Peace I haven’t felt in a while settles over me as I slice and dice the ingredients, my hand moving in tune with the knife. I’m thrown back to the happy moments I treasure—cooking with Mom, then later on cooking by myself when I miss her. The act gives me joy.

I chuckle at his horrid jokes when we finish the starter and prep for the pasta course.

He saunters over, a rolling pin in hand, and stops next to me.

“Casey, eh?”

Smirking, I don’t answer him. But I do have a question—a favor. Something I hope will help win Olivia back.

“I’d like to change the pasta course for me, if possible.”

Valenti arches his brow again. “Oh? What’s your proposal?”

“Teach me thepappardelle al cinghialeand I’ll get you in the door to teach classes at The Orchid.”

His eyes widen, his mouth gaping. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s thinking. The Orchid is invitation-only. No money or connections can buy entrance. Only the elite of the elite walk through those doors. It’s a place where deals are made and power is exchanged.

And I just gave him a way in.

Valenti shakes himself and clears his throat. “Is this for your beautiful friend? The lady doctor?”

Scanning his face, I notice only curiosity, not malice. Not like some folks who want a sound bite from me to sell to the gossip rags.

I nod. “Yes. It’s her favorite dish.”

“Hm.” He rocks on his heels and taps his chin. “I think we have all the ingredients we need for that dish here. Do you want to do it the easy way or make from scratch?”

“The latter.” I think back to what Mom said about infusing love into her dishes, hoping the people who eat it later would feel it. There’s no shortcut to this.

“It’ll be done in two parts. Today, we marinate the boar, and then we wait overnight. And just for you, I’ll clear my schedule tomorrow so we can finish.”

“Lucky me.” I’m sure getting into The Orchid has nothing to do with it.

The bastard winks. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I call bullshit. The way toeveryone’sheart is through their stomachs. With delicious Italian food—myItalian food. With my help, you’ll win your woman over. No problem.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Dear Mia,

Happy 30th birthday. I’ve written this letter in my head a thousand times. They say, practice what you preach, but they don’t tell you how hard it is.

Grief is strange.

For some people, it’s an explosion—fast, chaotic, over in a flash.

For others, it’s a slow simmer—gradual, escalating torture of being slowly burned alive.

That’sme. The latter.

For the last month, I’ve been seeing a therapist. Her name is Marybeth Connors. She’s a mentor and someone I trust. I told her everything. About you. About the silence in our house since you left. About our parents still processing their grief but not saying it aloud, because that would make it real. About how I tried to live my life for both of us, to be the perfect daughter because they had already lost you. About how I buried myself in work because I didn’t want to miss the signs again.

About how I wanted to save everyone.

The backs of myeyes burn as I sit at my parents’ dining room table and scribble a letter to my dead twin, something Marybeth recommended in our last session. Some people are better at saying their thoughts out loud. Others are better at writing them down.

I told her the truth I hadn’t admitted to anyone until the cruise.

Deep down, I was unhappy. I wasn’t truly living. I wasperforminga life I thought others needed me to live.