Page 57 of Dark Mafia Heir

Another day wasted.Peter refuses to break, and neither Dario nor Lorenzo has good news for me.

The faint aroma of something cooking greets me when I step through the door—spice, chili, something warm.

It’s comforting, but it doesn’t settle me. Nothing does. My chest feels too tight for that.

I follow the sound of clattering dishes to the kitchen, and I find Vivienne there, moving between the stove and the counter with a strange efficiency.

She’s wearing an apron that’s slightly too big for her, tied tightly around her waist, and her hair is pinned back, a few loose strands framing her face. She doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know she’s aware of me.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she says between shuffling a pot and waving a spatula in the air.

Dinner?

I must’ve entered the wrong house, because Viviennedoesn’tcook.

Agatha’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. She meets my gaze briefly, and I raise a brow. She looks away with a shrug, silently advising me not to bother asking her anything.

Vivienne turns to me. “Take a seat.” She gestures to a selected high stool drawn out from the kitchen island.

I hesitate, but there’s something in her demeanor that disarms me. It’s calm and new. Reluctantly, I pull out a chair and sit.

Vivienne continues working, and I lean back in the chair, my eyes darting between her and Agatha.

“What’s going on?”

The question is directed at Agatha, but she just shrugs again and nods toward Vivienne.

“You’ll have to ask her.”

And with that, the old maid leaves the kitchen.

The silence is immediately disturbed by the occasional clanging of pots and ceramic.

I turn to my wife’s back. “Over to you. What the hell is going on?”

Vivienne doesn’t respond immediately. She stirs the pot on the stove, and I can see her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

I grip the edge of the table. “Vivienne.”

She turns then, holding a wooden spoon in her hand like it’s the only thing keeping her steady. Her eyes meet mine, and I see something she never gives me access to—her anxiety.

She gestures to the food in the pot. “You had a long day. I thought… I thought this might help.”

Her answer is not what I was expecting, and her genuineness throws me off guard.

“I always have a long day.”

She rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’ve not always known how to cook. Just. . .I don’t know, Antonio. Today’s a special day. Take it that way, okay? I thought I’d do something nice.”

“Or maybe the pillow didn’t work, and now you’re trying actual poison with a mix of niceness to deceive me.”

The smile melts off her lips, and quietly, she turns back to serve the meal into the arranged plates. “I deserved that.”

She does.

But I feel like an asshole for bluntly pointing it out.

Exhaustion rolls off my shoulders, and I rub between my eyes. “Vivienne?—”

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