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“What about your mother?” I venture, my tone cautious. She doesn’t speak immediately, but her expression grows wistful.
“She…she was always there, you know?” Now she’s melancholy. “Always ready with a joke, always trying to make things…light. Fun. She was the kind of woman who’d play video games with me, let me put makeup on her. A real…friend.”
“But I’m guessing she barricaded the kitchen door whenever you got too close?” I joke.
She sticks her tongue out at me but continues sharing, “And she loved pancakes. Every morning, she’d cook a big stack for us. It’s been years, but I can still remember the taste. Warm and fluffy, drowned in maple syrup. And Dad…he’d always complain about how much syrup I put on, but Mom… She’d just laugh.”
She gives a small smile at the memory, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. I can tell she misses her family, that she yearns for those simpler times. Just the way I do.
“The accident,” she continues after a moment, her voice husky, “took her and my dad away.”
“Accident?” I stop what I’m doing.
“They both died.” She doesn’t elaborate. I don’t press. “I was ten. Life was…different after that.”
I say nothing, simply listening as she unravels her past. I’ve seen this kind of pain before – a dull ache that never quite goes away, a hole that never quite fills.
I’ve felt it, lived with it. Now, I recognize it in someone else.
And it feels like a homecoming.
Chapter 37
Sophia
I TRY so hard not to reveal anything personal to him.
But right now, I’m failing miserably.
I’m surrounded by the pristine, chromed perfection of this kitchen. The place is welcoming, warm, yet every shiny appliance screams money. It’s such a far cry from what I’m used to, it’s dizzying.
In this space, Luka’s a different kind of intimidating. He’s big and broad, looming over the stove, stirring the pot with a weird concentration. I like how serious he is about it. Like an artist painting his masterpiece, a maestro conducting a symphony, or maybe a god concocting a recipe for perfection.
The air is heavy with the tantalizing aroma of garlic and spices, pulling me in, making my stomach rumble in appreciation. His transformation from cold mafia boss to this domestic god is astonishingly alluring. He’s like a pin-up model who’s jumped straight from a Pinterest board into my reality.
God, he is so beautiful.
It’s hard not to stare, to watch the play of muscles under his shirt as he moves. The whole scene feels weirdly normal. But it’s anything but normal considering it’s Luka – a man with a reputation for not thinking twice before taking a life.
The image of him in the kitchen feels at odds with the man from last night, his face a cold mask of fury when he discovered I’d lied about my name to gain entry to his party. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, stirring the fear that constantly simmers in my stomach.
I could’ve died!
The thought rings like a silent scream in my head.
But I’m here. Alive and in his kitchen, watching him cook while my heart does somersaults in my chest. It’s terrifying, this conflict within me – the fear of losing my life and the growing, irrational attraction to this dangerous man.
Why do I feel this pull, this magnetic draw toward a man who’s a living, breathing threat? Every logical part of me screams to run, to get away from him as fast as possible. Yet here I am, rooted to the spot, my eyes tracing his form, my heart pounding a dangerous rhythm. It’s a madness I don’t understand, a madness I fear I’m losing myself to.
He disrupts silence, his voice catching me off guard. “Tell me more about your parents.”
I blink at him. “My parents?” The question hangs in the air, a specter of long-ago grief. “Honestly,” I admit, a lump forming in my throat, “I barely remember them now. Sometimes, I even forget what they looked like.
There’s a pause, and I see something in his eyes. Sympathy, maybe? He nods, urging me to continue.
I inhale, look away. “Yeah, they were…good, you know? All about the hustle. Did everything they could for me and Nilo.”
