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The skepticism and caution that she held at the beginning seemed to be replaced by understanding and, perhaps, a hint of empathy.
The more I shared about my true aspirations and ambitions, the more accepting she seemed to become.
A turning point came when she realized that my goals had nothing to do with the criminal life my family was deeply entrenched in. The disbelief in her eyes slowly faded, giving room to a new understanding. It was a revelation that seemed to reshape her view of me, a transformation I had hoped for.
Our conversations delved into the depths of my dreams and convictions, shedding an old skin, so to speak. Griselda's questions were thoughtful and insightful, reflecting a genuine attempt to understand the person I was. Her inquiries no longer carried a hint of judgment.
Through those dialogues, I witnessed the growth of her trust. It was a slow and delicate process, akin to a tender bloom unfurling its petals to the sun. She was beginning to see Emilio—the person, the dreamer, and the aspiring businessman.
The trust she was starting to place in me was a precious gift, one I valued immensely.
As the invisible barriers of misunderstanding and prejudice crumbled away, a sense of mutual respect began to take root. Griselda was no longer just a person fate had brought into my life; she was turning into a friend.
It was a tranquil evening. The aroma of Italian spices wafted through the kitchen. The simmering pot on the stove held the promise of a delicious meal.
Griselda sauntered into the kitchen, her presence instantly adding a touch of warmth to the room. She settled on a stool by the counter, propping her head on her palm, her lips forming an adorable pout as she gazed at the culinary scene.
Trying not to be distracted by her charm, I continued the cooking process. I stirred the ingredients in the pot, letting the flavors meld.
"I've been meaning to ask," she started, her curiosity evident, "who taught you how to cook?"
I smiled, momentarily setting the spoon aside.
"I taught myself," I confessed. "Once I was able to leave my father’s house, I realized I needed to learn. Despite having the means to order food forever, there's something satisfying about creating a dish with your own hands."
She looked slightly surprised, prompting her to inquire, "How did you learn?"
I proceeded to explain, recounting my journey into the culinary world.
"I used cookbooks and watched countless videos," I confessed.
The stove crackled softly as I spoke, the flickering flames reflecting the motivation that had driven me to master the art of cooking. I had practiced tirelessly, experimenting and tweaking recipes until I could craft a satisfying dish.
Griselda leaned on the counter, watching me intently as I bustled around the kitchen, and the savory aroma of sautéing vegetables filled the air.
"What's cooking?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
With a smile, I glanced at the simmering pot and then back at her.
"Osso Buco," I said, twirling a wooden spoon.
Osso Buco was a traditional Italian stew made with braised veal shanks, simmered to achieve tender, melt-in-your-mouth perfection. The combination of tender meat, white wine, aromatic vegetables, and a hint of citrus zest creates a rich, savory flavor that tantalizes the taste buds.
Griselda's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Osso Buco? That's quite complicated, isn't it?"
I shook my head, the corners of my lips tugging upward. "It's not as complicated as it seems. I'll prove it to you. Come here."
I motioned for her to join me, inviting her to take over the cooking process. I smiled at seeing her so eager to learn. Her presence beside me was comforting.
When the stew was ready, she tasted it, and her eyes lit up with genuine delight. "Wow, it tastes amazing!"
Pleased with her reaction, I was caught in the moment, and before I fully registered my actions, I found myself tasting the spoon she held out. It was an innocent gesture, one that seemed natural in the culinary atmosphere we were enveloped in.
But as Griselda turned to put the spoon aside, her face just inches away from mine, I could feel the warmth of her breath on my skin. Time seemed to slow, and for a moment, we were suspended in an unspoken connection.
She gently cleared her throat, breaking the trance that had befallen us. "How was the stew?"
I didn't answer immediately, my gaze fixated on her lips. She must have noticed, too, because a nervous look flitted across her features—she lightly licked her lips. It was an innocent action, but it had a profound effect on me. Unable to resist the magnetic pull, I leaned forward, our lips meeting in a harsh kiss.
