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For a second, he says nothing.

Then he gives a slight nod, like I’ve handed him something heavier than a compliment.

“Good.”

I tear off a piece of bread, dunk it in the soup, and try not to think too much about the fact that Luca Ferrazzo—the same man who once threatened to remove Dr. Grubert’s fingers in a parking garage—decided to make me his mother’s old comfort meal after a rotten day.

That’s not confusing at all.

The tension in my back finally loosens as I watch the wonderful chef across from me. I can’t stay mad at him, I guess.

I’m not sure I have a reason to be annoyed in the first place.

“So, what did you get up to today?” I ask.

“Nothing much. Business again, running through quarterly reports for our supply end. Already forgotten the second I got home.” Luca smiles and lifts his wine, but he doesn’t drink.

I raise an eyebrow. “Nothing, huh?”

“Nothing interesting.”

“You say that like your version of nothing is the same as mine.” I don’t mean to sound so harsh.

His eyes flash as he pings on it right away.

“Tell me your version, dove.”

“Sitting in front of a screen and checking the same boxes four thousand times. I never thought it’d end.”

“Sounds productive.”

“It was hell.”

He almost smiles again.

But I’m not naïve enough to believe that just because we’re married, we’re through the dangerous phase of our relationship.

I mean, we haven’t even made it to the honeymoon phase.

We’re in no man’s land, that confusing place between stranger I insta-married under fear for my life and actual heartfelt feelings.

The whole what have I done, why is he so attractive, and will this end in Federal prison?

Things can get a lot worse before they get better.

I keep my voice light as I say, “Come on, Luca. You must have done something crazy. Threatened a corrupt city council dude? Bought a suspicious number of burner phones? Stared broodingly out a window while plotting your next grand heist?”

He looks down into his wine, and the almost-smile disappears.

“Heist? You think I’m out there robbing trains or some shit? Do I look like I stepped out of the eighteen hundreds?”

I crack a smile.

“It’s a hell of a lot more boring than that,” he says. “I’m in the thick of some tough negotiations—awful stuff, if you must know. A theft incident where some brainless fools used our truck. Not much I can do but keep grinding and wait for it to blow over.”

That gets my attention.

Luca doesn’t say ‘awful stuff’ the way normal people do.