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But I can’t say for certain if that’s what he would do. I don’t know a fraction of what goes on here in the shadows.

Only that the entire clinic is up to its neck in some very shady business.

As I walk to my ride, one question echoes in my mind.

Just how many lies am I being asked to carry?

After the day from hell, the smell wafting through the front door gives me life again.

Not metaphorical life, either. Actual, soul-reentering-body life.

Garlic. Tomatoes. Oregano.

Something rich and savory simmered low and slow until it became magical. The kind of smell that wraps around you like one of Nonno’s comfy blankets the second you step inside and says, There, there. Life might be a flaming wreck right now, but in here, we have carbs and meat sauce. It can’t be all bad.

I’m also confused. Because I’m not at Nonno’s house.

Our chef likes to mix it up with more varied cuisine, and I doubt he’d be working so late.

For a few seconds, I just stand in the entryway with my hand on the doorknob, eyes closed, breathing.

Tears prick my eyes.

Inside, Luca waits with the table already set.

Warm light from the chandelier spills across the polished wooden table.

Our usual places are arranged opposite each other with folded cloth napkins, heavy silverware, and crystal goblets. A low candle flickers between us, making the glass and silver shine. There’s fresh bread in a basket lined with a white towel, steam still escaping.

And in front of my chair sits a bowl overflowing with pasta e fagioli.

A huge, honking bowl of beans, pasta, vegetables, gravy, and absolute comfort with a bright sheen of olive oil glimmering on top.

Beside it, there’s a glass of red wine, deep and dark, already poured.

Exactly what I need to recover from my lonely hours of hell in the hospital.

Luca stands at the far side of the table in a black button-down with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing his ink. Sexy as ever, but also a little menacing.

He looks like a chef who doubles as an undertaker.

His hair looks so dark in the shadows, slicked back a bit, maybe from the effort of cooking and throwing this meal together.

Yet the light in those wintry blue eyes looks softer, more relaxed than I’ve seen in a while.

In Luca terms, mildly homicidal, I think.

“You’re late,” he says gently, tapping the gold watch on his wrist playfully.

I blink at him, still half-drunk on the garlic smell. “That better be concern and not criticism.”

His mouth twitches. “It’s an observation, little dove. I hate the thought of you working yourself to death.”

I wish that was my only worry.

“Fine.” I drop my bag in the empty chair next to mine. “I’ll forgive you because I’m starving and this smells like heaven.”

That earns me an actual smile. Small, quick, gone almost before I can decide if I just imagined it.