Page 72 of Sinner's Vows

“Rawbison?” Portia says, offended. “This dog?”

“Yes! He’s been farting for over a decade, and I can’t take it anymore. All the other shit people feed him messes with his gut microbiome. So I decided to go back to his origins and first foods to see if it helps. Bison. Or deer. Rabbit. Nothing else. All raw.”

Portia cusses under her breath. “Have you lost your mind? Bruno is Italian! Why would he eat anything raw? Least of all American wild meat! Full of worms and parasites!”

“It’s farmed organic bison,” I retaliate, equally offended. “And he hasn’t fart-bombed me out of a room for weeks. But now—” I cut myself short. It’s going to be a proverbial shit show what with the raw bison deep cleanse he’s had. That cheese smells like trouble already. Bruno is going to have to sleep outside tonight.

Portia looks like she’s been through the wringer, too, and it strikes me this homey scene in front of me has been staged. Portia as always in the kitchen, Ariana measuring out flour on a scale, but something is off.

“What did you find?” I ask, going straight for the target. “Tell me you found something?”

“Nothing,” Portia says with a sigh that sounds a bit forced as she keeps grating. “Dominic, this house is humongous. The housekeeper hasn’t been here for weeks to do a proper job, and without oversight, the staff is lazy.”

“So you cleaned instead?”

“Just a bit—” She shoots me a glance before she looks down at the cheese grater again.

“You know we have a missing sister out in the world?—”

“Yes, Nicky, we’re all fully aware.” Portia gives me her back as she turns to the stove, and my heart sinks.

It’s been twenty-two years. For all we know she’s dead, and a few more hours won’t matter. And I’m still waiting for the DNA results. Apparently, I’m getting them in the morning.

I’m annoyed that a whole day has passed without a shift in anything or any new information. Except for this fucked-upsituation with Ivan Petrov, or his dad, Igor. I don’t know either of these men, and the whole fucking day, it’s been eating at me that there will be a retribution, thatIl Consigliodoesn’t have anything we’re willing to give up, and that Matteo is going to see Ariana as an easy solution. If she isn’t a blood relation, he’d give her up if Ivan would have her without a blink if it means we don’t take a slice off our territories.

Over my dead body.

With a quiet sigh, I shut the door on my workday and close the gap between us. “What are you making?”

Ariana looks up at me. “Fresh pasta. Fettucine. Portia got all the ingredients delivered for a carbonara, so…”

“So she can technically go home? As I rather like making pasta,” I asksotto voceas I take hold of the backrest of her stool.

“Thank God,” Portia huffs, already at the strings of her apron. “It’s been hot today, and I need to water my garden, otherwise those beans will be good for nothing but compost. I’ll leave you to Bruno and his farts.”

She’s over-exaggerating her movements as if her words weren’t enough. I soften immediately. She is, after all, the woman who stepped onto the battlefield when Mom died. Portia tried her best. Not that she was allowed much, but she never gave up on us.

“Thanks for coming in,” I say, padding over to give her a side hug. “And for being here at the crack of dawn, and for dusting, and for vacuuming, and for looking after Ariana.”

She harrumphs as she glares up at me in mock anger. “You’re welcome, Nicky. Dr. Wong was here. All is good with Ariana’s wound. But you need to feed her, therefore the carbonara.”

I smile at Ariana, and she blushes right on cue. If it weren’t for the drained look on her face, I’d say she already looks better since Portia’s been feeding her.

“Of course I’ll make sure she eats.” I drop a peck of a kiss on her grey curls. She’s so much shorter than me, I have her completely under my arm. “I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do,” she teases with a quirked brow.

As I let her go, a silent exchange passes between the two women which I don’t miss at all. Portia hands me the apron, grabs her purse where she parked it this morning, and waves herself off.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Portia,” Ariana calls to her back as she rushes out of the kitchen.

Someone is way too eager to leave. Portia’s running from something, and it isn’t Bruno’s flatulence.

Right on cue, Bruno slumps to the floor, rips his first pancetta-and-cheese-induced fart, and I drop my head back with a groan. “Fuck me. I need a drink.”

“Oof.” Ariana hops off her chair and goes to the stove where she puts on the extraction fan. “This will help.”

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