Page 51 of No Darker Temptation

I hook an arm around her waist and draw her against me. She shifts and catches her breath, a soft sigh leaving her lips as she turns over and realizes it’s me.

I press a kiss against her temple. “Go back to sleep.”

Dahlia shifts in bed to face me and rests her head against the crook of my neck, hands pressed against her heart, as she folds herself into me. With ease, she drifts back to sleep but my mind is spinning. Early dawn creeps across the bedroom and by the time my alarm goes off, I’m already awake again, staring at the canopy above the bed. Dahlia’s still asleep, her alarm set for a few hours after mine.

I don’t get up at first. I lie there and watch her, mesmerized by the way the sun dances across her skin and the ruby-toned strands of her hair. Her nails are digging into her palms again and I gently unclench her fists before leaving them to rest on the pillow beside her. Enough time has passed that if I don’t get up now, I’ll be late to the office and there’s too much that has to get done today.

By the time I head downstairs to the kitchen Diego is already there waiting for me. He scoops coffee into the top half of the cafetera before leaving it on the stove to boil.

“We have our work cut out for us today,” he laments, likely exhausted from the night before.

I check the time on my watch; half past six. “What could’ve possibly happened in the last five hours?”

Diego first fills me in. Joseph Coppola is being smuggled out of Trieste as we speak and is expected to make a stop in France and then Andorra before reaching the villa. Dimitrio has already put Beni in charge of security and he’s taking Oscar with him, something that has likely irritated Pedro as the two are attached at the hip. In Beni’s absence, Pedro is taking over his responsibilities for the next few weeks and Manuel and Rodrigo will be occupying Pedro and Oscar’s usual posts.

Diego serves us coffee and I pilfer through the pantries looking for inspiration but find none. The kitchen is on the ground level right below the main foyer of our corner of the house and my favorite room by far. Aside from it being beautiful—Dahlia managed to preserve the structural beams and wide brick arches during the renovation—it was designed with me in mind.

More cabinets than I know what to do with, a massive limestone island, a dark teal and gold ten-burner stove, wide porcelain sink, every cooking gadget imaginable, and a refrigerator with shelves galore. I don’t have many indulges or hobbies in life but the kitchen has always been my sanctuary, the one place where I could shed all pretense and be completely normal.

Dahlia even designed a special corner for my KitchenAid with its own outlet and light switch. I am, without a doubt, going to marry this woman one day.

Diego sits on the island with his coffee and this morning’s paper while I take milk and butter out of the fridge. I ask my brother, “You want farina?”

He considers this. “Which one?”

“Dahlia likes the yellow one.”

He nods and returns to his reading. “The yellow one then.”

I open a new bag of harina de maiz and pour the fine yellow powder into the pot of milk, melted butter, sugar, and a dash of salt. I add a drop of vanilla and a few lemon peels before stirring gently as the milk begins to boil.

Diego’s phone rings and he answers. “¿Bueno?”

The grain takes several minutes to cook and after it does, takes longer to thicken. Diego briefly interrupts his phone call to say, “Take mine out! Us normal people don’t like cement paste for breakfast.”

I chuckle and take a bowl out of the cabinet. I turn to ask if he wants extra milk in his but my brother’s eyes have darkened from crystalline to cobalt blue, brows drawn together as he nods his head, listening intently. After a minute he says, “No, I’ll head over in a bit. Don’t do anything until I get there.”

When he hangs up, I ask, “What happened?”

He waits until I serve him breakfast first before replying. Sly bastard. “An interesting thing just happened. Rico Salcedo landed on our doorstep.”

I quirk a brow and return to the stove to continue stirring. “Sandro’s capo, Salcedo?”

Diego makes a face, equally as surprised as I am. As usual, he never waits for the farina to cool and eats heaping spoonfuls, hissing the whole time. “Apparently on their morning rounds, Manuel and Rodrigo found him and another guy surveying the area. The other one got away but they were able to grab Salcedo. Unfortunately, there was an altercation.”

“What kind of altercation?”

Footsteps echoing somewhere in the house catch our attention. I recognize them as Dahlia’s, the light pitter-patter familiar and distinct, versus Diego who stomps like an elephant and Lettie who’s never worn flats a day in her life. As a toddler, our mother bought her shoes with heels.

“The kind of altercation that would leave him unconscious for a few hours so enjoy your morning.” He gets up and drops his bowl in the sink. “Gotta go, busy day.”

“Diego!” I call after him. “Wash that.”

“Can’t!” He stops to peck Dahlia on the cheek on the way out. “Already out the door!”

Dahlia is a bit dazed as she watches him leave but manages a half-hearted wave. She isn’t yet fully dressed but wearing a day robe and a pair of slippers whose soles don’t quite touch the floor because when she isn’t in heels, she tiptoes everywhere. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

“¿Tienes hambre?” I motion to the pot. “Nice and hard just the way you like it.”