Page 58 of Dark Mafia Heir

“You’ve stopped calling megattina.” She places a steaming plate of pasta before me with a brow raised and goes back to grab her plate from the counter.

Dragging her stool, she lifts a wine bottle from the island and fills each glass, half full.

I’m too stunned to speak. Everything is happening so fast, it feels surreal. The last time I had a conversation with her, she poked at my past, and I shut her off. The Vivienne I knew should have done anything else but cook me dinner.

I exhale. “You know what? I’ll taste it. If it kills me, I have men that will willingly shoot you in the head, execution style.”

Vivienne doesn’t flinch under my threat; she just raises her glass in an air-toast and takes a sip while watching me through unguarded eyes.

I twirl a forkful of pasta and lift it to my mouth, expecting something disastrous at best, but the flavors surprise me.

The sauce is rich, perfectly balanced between the tang of tomatoes and the warmth of garlic.

The pasta itself is cooked just right, not too firm, not too soft. The traditional way.

I set the fork down, taking a moment to process.

There’s no point hiding my opinion from her. By the time I’m done with the plate, she’ll figure it out.

“This is good. Really good,gattina.”

Across the island, she lets out a soft laugh, almost nervous, like she wasn’t sure how I’d react.

“I’m so glad you like it. For a moment, you had me there. But, I had help.” She brushes her hair behind her ear. “I practically begged Agatha to show me how to cook something decent. She gave me a crash course today.”

“Looks like it paid off.”

I take another bite. The warmth of the meal spreads through me. It’s rare for anyone to go out of their way for me like this.

She shrugs, but Vivienne’s not one to hide the pride in her expression. “I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I figured… it’s about time I learn something useful.”

Her words make me pause, the fork resting halfway to my mouth. “My honest opinion: you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Fidgeting with the edge of her napkin, she murmurs. “Maybe.”

I decide to change the subject, shifting the focus away from her self-doubt.

“I’m going to tell you something. Promise not to judge.”

She raises her hand. “I swear, I won’t.”

“I’m not much in the kitchen myself.” I lean back slightly. “But I can manage a few things. Omelets, mostly. Pasta, if I’m in the mood.”

Vivienne bursts out in a shocking laugh that shoots a tingle down my spine. Her green eyes light, and the strands framing her face brush her cheeks.

“Antonio Mancini making omelets? You, in the kitchen? How does that even work?”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “You swore.”

“I didn’t think a man like you would have time for cooking. I expected something else, maybe a hobby of carving people’s eyeballs. Notcooking.”

“No,” I admit. It’s been years since I did. “But sometimes it helps to keep my hands busy. Keeps my mind quiet.”

Her gaze softens at that, like she understands more than she lets on.

The more we talk, the more I take note of the tiny details that might have passed off as insignificant if I didn’t look closely. She’s laughing, not the polite, measured kind, but the kind that bursts out loose and genuine.

It’s fucking infectious. Before I realize it, the corner of my mouth lifts more.

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