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You knew the woman’s life had to be hard when a pair of soft socks made her cry.
I didn’t say anything, didn’t want to make her insecure about it, just moved over to put a pot of coffee on, figuring I was going to need it before I built the crib and high chair.
“How do you and Judah feel about pasta?” I asked as an icebreaker.
“Pasta?” she asked, looking over.
“For dinner,” I clarified.
“It’s my favorite thing to eat,” she said. “Judah loves it, too. But we… we didn’t get to eat it much,” she admitted, eyes going dark.
So the bastard controlled her food too.
No wonder she was so fucking skinny.
“Well, you ended up at the right doorstep then, angel. Because pasta is pretty much a nightly thing in an Italian household.”
“I could cook,” she was quick to offer.
“I got it,” I told her, shaking my head. “Figure you’ll be covering breakfast and lunch for you two. The least I can do is make dinner easier. I love cooking,” I added. “It’s not a chore.”
“Well, in that case,” she said, her smile suddenly softer, sweeter, “you are free to cook as much as your heart desires. What kind of pasta are you making?”
“Alfredo?” I asked, knowing I had all the ingredients. “Throw in some chicken and broccoli to round it out.”
“That sounds perfect,” she said, beaming.
“Some homemade garlic bread to go with it.”
“You… you bake your own bread?” she asked.
“My ma made sure we knew how to feed ourselves,” I told her. “Do you cook?”
“I don’t bake my own bread, but I can throw together food. I usually only ever got to make Judah’s breakfast, though. There… there was a cook with strict instructions for our meals.”
Christ, that was controlling.
“In that case, if you could have any dessert, what would you have?”
“Brownies,” she said, without even a second of hesitation. “My mom made the best brownies ever. They’re my favorite. I don’t think Judah has ever had them,” she added, looking over at her son. “The staff used to stuff him with ice cream to keep him happy when I was… gone, but those were the only sweets he ever got. Because Warren didn’t know about them.”
“I’m sure mine won’t be as good as your mom’s, but I can make brownies.”
“Would you mind if I… you know…”
“Made your mom’s brownies? No, of course not. Dig around in the pantry and see if I have everything you need. If not, I can get it dropped off. I have someone coming over soon,” I added. “Which I actually need to talk to you about.”
“Who is it?” she asked, body tensing.
“One of my soldiers. A guard. My boss has decided to beef up security for a while. He wants all of the capos to have a guard stationed outside, day and night.”
“Because you’re worried about retaliation from Warren.”
“Yes.”
“Did… was anyone hurt? Of yours, I mean,” she said.
“I lost one of my men. And my cousin was shot twice. But we were lucky. Compared to Warren,” I told her.
