“Long day?” I ask from where I stand in front of the stove stirring pasta. The sauce in the pot next to it simmers, the scent of tomato and basil filling the kitchen.
She didn’t tell me when she was coming home but when I got a text from my security guys letting me know she was on the way, I started dinner so she’d have a hot meal waiting.
“Endless.” She drops her bag by the door and kicks off her heels. “I had a board meeting first thing. Then a client call that went two hours over. Then Patrick cornered me about third quarter projections like the world isn't falling apart around us.”
“Eat something.”
She shakes her head. “I'm not hungry.”
“I don’t believe you.” I lift an eyebrow. “But eat anyway.”
She looks at me, still keeping her distance from the kitchen. There’s something uneasy in her expression, maybe even a little wary. We haven't been alone together since the car. Since the moment that almost happened.
“You cooked for me?” she asks.
“I knew you wouldn’t have taken the time out of your day to eat. So I wanted to make sure you had something hot and ready here.”
I swallow a smirk. Shit, that has so much more meaning than she knows.
“Thank you,” she says. “That was really thoughtful.”
I slide a plate across the counter toward her. She hesitates, then sits on the stool across from me and takes a bite.
“Mmm. This is so good," she says.
“Don't sound so surprised.” I chuckle and scoop some pasta on my plate.
“I'm constantly surprised by you.” Her mouth quirks upward. “It's becoming a theme.”
“Cheese?” I ask, holding up a container of freshly grated parmesan.
“Of course,” she says. “It would be un-Italian to deny cheese.”
I wink and sprinkle some cheese on her pasta then on my own. “Happy to keep you on your toes.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Reaper positions himself between us, his head whipping back and forth like he's watching a tennis match. I spoon some pasta into one of his bowls and place it on the floor at my feet. He practically inhales it.
“How's the Harrington-Cole deal coming? Any news?” I ask.
“It’s on track. Jenny Whitmore confirmed the meeting for next week. Dominic's calmer now, and the Russians haven't made another move.” She twirls pasta around her fork. “My father would have handled it differently, you know, with guns instead of lawyers. But this way, nobody dies, and we still come out on top.” But her expression doesn’t look convinced.
“Different isn't worse.”
She shakes her head. “Tell that to the capos. Half of them probably think I'm too soft. The other half are waiting to see if I fail so they can say they saw it coming.”
“Don’t worry yourself with what they think. They're going to see you for who you really are and what you can do for your father’s organization. They just need time to adjust to a new way of working.”
She looks at me, her fork in the air. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
I shove a forkful of pasta into my mouth and chew for a second. “I've seen you work. They haven't. Not really. Give them a few more wins like Castellano and they'll come around.”
“Or they'll resent me for proving them wrong. I don’t know what would be worse.”
“Some might resent you. But the smart ones won't.” I shrug. “You can't control how people react. You can only control what you do.”
She takes another bite of her pasta and has a sip of the red wine I set out next to her plate. “When did you get so wise?”
I grin. “I was born this way. It's a real burden.”
