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In a normal family, Mama would be the classic housewife, taking care of every chore, caring for her children, and putting food on the table while her husband complains about his job. But in the life I live, many of my papa’s men do not like Mama. She would take us to Paris regularly for years on end, making sure we learned a language other than Italian. That way we would never be involved in Papa’s dirty work.
That didn’t age well. I’m not involved in his work; I was thrown into it.
I toss the throw blanket off my legs and walk toward the kitchen.
Mama has an apron on, and her hair is in a knot on top of her head. Cooking is the only time anyone will see her not in her best outfit.
Her face is covered in flour as she moves back and forth from the stove to the counter.
“I’m leaving next week, if you’d like to come with me,” she says, looking at me as I sit on the stool.
The stove is right in front of me, connected to the island. Whatever she is cooking is popping oil all over the place. I scoot back a little as she lets out a laugh.
“It won’t hurt you.”
“I beg to differ, Mama. That is boiling!” I try swatting the burning steam away from my eyes. “I can’t go with you to Paris.”
She lets out a strong scoff. “And why not?”
I’m about to speak, but I get interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps entering the room.
“Giovanni! I didn’t know you were here still.” Mama throws her arms around him.
A small smile forms on his lips. The only woman I have ever seen him smile genuinely at.
Mama has always had a soft spot for him. She used to tell me stories about how her and his mother would spend days on end together before me and my sister were born.
She’s the one who planned his baby shower. It’s crazy to think he has been connected to my family for years.
“Just wanted to stop by and see what was burning.” He laughs as she swats him in the arm. If any other person were to hit him like that, they would lose an ear just like Kirill did last night. Max told me that earlier—that the jerk got what he deserved.
“It does not burn. Not my kitchen,” Mama says with her broken English. “Stay and share a meal with us!”
“I can’t stay for long. I have calls to make.” Giovanni takes a seat right next to me. “Nina.” He tucks my hair behind my ears.
I look down instantly. His touch sets my skin on fire yet makes me feel cold, making me shiver.
“Just stay the night,” Mama insists while taking a container of lemonade out of the fridge. I look up at her.
No, he cannot spend the night.
I quickly untuck my hair, trying to take his touch off my skin. He looks back at me and narrows his eyes.
“I may take you up on that, Miliana.” He addresses my mama with her first name. No one does that anymore.
“Parfaite!”Excitement fills her voice.
I roll my eyes at Giovanni. He acts all tough, but I know he has a soft heart—under all the dark, that is.
“Nina, take over. I will be back soon. I have to make some changes for our supper.” Mama’s legs carry her as if she is walking on a runway. Her head turns back in mine and Giovanni’s direction. “Just start the soupe à l’oignon.”
I don’t respond to her demand; I just oblige.
Once she leaves the kitchen, I take a cup out of the cabinet and pour myself some juice. After a couple of sips, I place it on the counter. Giovanni picks it up almost immediately after my fingers leave the glass, his lips touching the same part of the cup as mine.
I turn to face away from him as I feel my face heating up. I don’t know why something so simple made my heart flutter. The only thing attractive about this man is the way he carries himself. He’s confident, but not in the way that looks cocky.
And his hair. The way the dark curls curve around his face, bringing out his tanned complexion—smooth without a single wrinkle on his face. Does this man get Botox or something?Holy shit.
