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To not live in misery for the rest of my life.
I needed my knives back, a way to keep myself busy with work, exercise, and a ray of freedom. Just a ray, that was all I’ve ever known.
Slipping on my favorite black heels, I grabbed a hanger and hooked the zipper of my dress and slid it up. I checked my lipstick one last time inside the closet’s mirror and inspected the fading bruises that time had healed. I bent down to the floor. My hand slipped underneath the mirror, and when I felt the piece of metal that hid my holster and knife, I pulled it free. While low on the floor, I pushed my leg through its opening, and as I rose, so did the leather strap.
With Enzo’s warning, I wasn’t going anywhere without it. Not even in this room. I’ll deal with the consequencesifhe ever finds out.
I made my way out of the room and down the stairs, enjoying the sound of my heels. The only warning of my presence I was willing to give. Still unfamiliar with every inch of the house, I started with the kitchen.
“Morning,” I greeted, and three pairs of eyes shot up.
The noise seized inside the chef’s grand kitchen. Clean steel lines with the same marble flooring and brown furniture stretched inside, making it not only equipped with the finest tools for a cook but also refined.
“Good morning, Ms. Katia,” a tall older woman with kind eyes and caramel and gray streaks of hair said. “I’m Mrs. Greco. Head of staff.” She wiped her hands on her apron with a nod.
“Pleasure.” I stared at her bluntly. She was being genuine, but there was an underlying air about her that I couldn’t grasp.
“How long have you worked here?”
Her brows raised, and her lips thinned, confused by my question. “Years.”
Hmm.Years.
“My apologies for taking so long before meeting you all.” I smiled.
“Oh, don’t apologize!” A round brown-eyed and bright-smiled girl chuckled. She appeared young, maybe eighteen? Too young and too sweet to work in a house whose door welcomed killers. “I’m Talia, and this grumpy boomer is my dad, Carlo.”
Talia’s dirty-blonde ponytail whipped quickly to face her father. I followed her playful grin to the man whose mouth was stuffed with a hand full of a half-eaten croissant. Carlo appeared to be in his late fifties, but life had not been kind to him. His eyes were the same color as Talia’s, but they were tired and jaded. With short, peppered hair and scattered sun marks across his face, Carlo quickly chewed as he lowered his head to the floor.
“It’s all true. However, I am no grump, Ms. Katia.” He defended himself, and his eyes narrowed to his daughter.
“Nice meeting you, Carlo.”
“Likewise.”
My grin was filled with amusement. “How many others am I missing to meet?” I asked and faced Mrs. Greco.
Talia beat her reply. “Chef Diego, but he only shows up when big meals need to be prepared. He’s little.” She whispered at the end, and she made sure Mrs. Greco wasn’t watching before she placed her palm down to her shoulder, advising his height.
I chuckled.
“And my dad has someone who helps him with the grounds and small house repairs. Tiago, he’s super skinny and tall.”
I liked her. Her energy was contagious.
“Well, I would love to come back and chat about some dishes. Maybe I can help in the kitchen one night.” That caught Mrs. Greco by surprise.
“You cook?” Talia’s voice raised.
“Yes, when I lived in Italy for a few years alone, I had to learn to cook my meals. I quickly realized I enjoyed doing it.”
“If that’s what you wish.” Mrs. Greco’s timid grin agreed.
“Can’t wait,” I said, eager to feel the familiarity of cooking, and the touch of normalcy of preparing a meal. “I also wanted to ask for someone’s time to show me around the house and the grounds, if possible.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Greco rushed, wiping her hands again before looking down at the dough before her. “I just—”
“Oh, there’s no need to waste the thirty minutes of kneading you’ve done. I can do it,” Talia offered with a shrug.
