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It was just after seven on a Friday night a week after the bath situation. I’d planned on getting home and inviting her out to dinner. A peace offering, of sorts, since I’d been just as stubborn as she had since then, refusing to be the one to break the silence first. I figured that if we got out of the apartment together, maybe she would loosen up a bit, hold a conversation with me, and we could move forward.
I walked into the scents of cooking in my apartment.
Moving in, I could see Isabella in the kitchen, busy at work.
She was never fully casual, but this was as close as she got, wearing dark wash bootcut jeans and a simple lightweight camel-colored sweater. Her silky hair was pulled into a loose braid down her back, likely to keep it out of her face while she cooked.
I didn’t know what she was making.
But I did know one thing.
She wasn’t going to make enough for me.
She never did.
It was actually impressive that she managed to fight against what had to be a lifetime of Italian-mom-training to be a good future hostess, someone who always made more than enough for everyone around her.
But I had to give her credit, she sure as fuck managed.
Every single morning, I would walk down to her making just enough breakfast for herself. I wasn’t typically home early enough to catch her making dinner, but there were never any leftovers in the fridge for me, either.
Interestingly enough, though, she did apparently cook for Dulles and Dawson when they were pulling guard shifts. I knew because they’d raved about my wife’s cooking skills and I’d needed to hastily change the subject to avoid having to admit that she despised me so much that she would rather let me starve than feed me.
Sighing, I took off my jacket, laying it over the back of the couch, then pulling off my cufflinks, and put them down on the coffee table. Rolling up my sleeves, I made my way into the kitchen, seeing the pasta in the pot and the fresh herbs and cheeses spread across the counter.
Lasagne.
The woman was making some sort of lasagne.
And it sounded fucking amazing.
But there was no way I was going to start making my own at that hour.
So I grabbed some frozen filo dough, loaded it up with feta, olive oil, mozzarella, basil, and parsley, and threw my makeshift pizza into the oven. The entire time, Isabella danced around me like I didn’t exist. I may as well have been a damn ghost in my own kitchen the way she completely ignored my presence. Even when I tried to get in her way, or stick my hand in the same container of cut spices she was reaching into, she managed to move around me and snatch her hand back before there could be any proof that I was actually there.
I had to find a way to get on her good side.
Because while it was originally funny and maybe even a little cute that she could act like I didn’t exist in my own fucking home, it was getting old fast.
A week was long enough.
The problem was, I had no idea what I could do to make shit right.
I lucked out the next day, though.
I’d just been making my way down to grab some coffee and head out when Terzo rushed into the apartment, eyes telling.
“We have a situation,” he said,” he said, glancing over at Isabella who was sitting at the dining room table with her coffee and writing down what was likely a grocery list since we were getting low on everything.
“Okay,” I agreed, skipping the coffee, and following him, keeping my mouth shut until we were in the elevator. “Where are we going?”
“The alley,” he said, making my brows pinch. “You need to see it for yourself,” he said, shaking his head at me.
Interest piqued, I followed him down to the ground floor, and out into the alley.
Where I found Vissi holding the leather-jacket-clad arm of a woman.
“I swear to fucking God if you don’t let go of my arm, I am going to cut each one of your fingers off with a really dull set of scissors,” she growled at Vissi, staring at him with daggers in her eyes.
Fierce enough that I was sure she was actually capable.
She had different coloring than Isabella, looking more like their brother Emilio with her medium-brown shoulder-length hair, and the blue eyes that came from their mother’s side of the family.
But there was no mistaking the soft, feminine face shape, the deep-set eyes, and the plump lips.
“Mirabella,” I greeted her, watching as her head whipped over, brows lifted, surprised that I knew who she was. As if the family resemblance wasn’t almost painfully obvious.
“Mira,” she corrected, chin lifting in a move that was so much like her sister that I felt my lips twitching.
