Page 28 of Heritage of Fire

I frown, pulling the phone away from my ear to check who’s calling.

It’s Frank.

I dart toward the elevator and push the down button several times.

“Fire?” I bark, stepping on, and Kate’s cackling filters in after me.

“Karma!” she yells as the doors close.

Chapter 13

Luna

How to make chicken parmesan.

The fact I searched the internet for this probably caused mynonnato roll over in her grave.

I frown at the instructions. I wish I had paid more attention to Giulia during her cooking lessons. But how hard could this be, really?

Honestly, I have no idea if Nik will be willing to eat with me or not, but I figure I can at least try to make a meal for him. According to Frank and Lev, it isn’t consistent when he rolls in from work—this whole dinner may be a waste of time.

After I preheat the oven, I prepare the chicken, fumbling my way through Nik’s kitchen. While nothing is visibly out of place in his apartment, there is zero organization in his cabinets. Pots are shoved in with shaker cups. Cutting boards are hidden under plates. It takes more time to locate the items I need than it does to do the actual cooking.

With the water boiling on the stove, I place the noodles in the pot. I’m cringing at my inability to make homemade pasta when, out of the corner of my eye, smoke begins to pour out of the oven. And I meanpour. These aren’t wisps of smoke casuallyseeking entrance to the apartment. No. Smoke billows out, and in a matter of seconds, all the alarms start to sound.

Shoot.

I grab several kitchen towels and whip my way through the smoke toward the oven. Looking at the bake time, I see there is still an hour left. Crap. I set the timer for two hours instead of the twenty minutes as needed to melt the mozzarella.

Gosh, Luna.

I’ve torched Nik’s warehouse. I can practically hear my mother spewing criticism at me as I work to get the oven open, the wailing fire alarm doing nothing to calm my nerves.

Charred chicken is now covered in blackened cheese, and the sauce … let’s just say it’s no longer red.

I’m reaching into the oven, two pot holders over my hands, when the door bursts open. I yelp in surprise, losing my grip on the pan. A searing pain sizzles my hand when I try to catch it, and I end up dropping the dish. Sauce splatters, and charred chicken bounces in every direction.

“Mrs. Balakin, are you okay? Please come with me.” I turn to see Frank approaching me.

“I’m so sorry.” I swallow, fighting the urge to let any tears fall. They prick behind my eyes, the sting rivaling that of my singed hand. My throat bobs, a tear drips down my cheek—and I lose the battle.

I couldn’t even make a meal.

“It’s my fault I burnt the food. I’ll get it under control.”

Frank nods, switching on the overhead fan and then moving to open a few windows. Cool air instantly floods the apartment, and the smoke starts to gravitate toward the windows, the haze in the kitchen clearing.

I cringe at the mess on the floor. Half the chicken is glued to the pan, and the other half, which ricocheted off the cabinets, is now staining the concrete floors.

“I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right downstairs,” Frank calls over the alarms.

He’s going to call Nik; I’m sure of it.

Shame heats my face. Two days of being his wife and I’ve managed to ruin his kitchenandprove I’m only good for setting fires. He probably should’ve added a cooking clause to the contract.

I wince at the bubbling skin on my pointer and middle finger. Reaching for the sink, I turn on the cold water and let it run over my fingers, though it barely eases the throb. As I stand there, the screeching finally stops. It’s now silent aside from the warehouse noises downstairs, which drift through the apartment’s propped door.

Laughter floats up from below, reminding me that every single man here witnessed my embarrassing catastrophe. A single tear tracks down my nose, and I smack it away. Ignoring my throbbing fingers, I begin to dig through the cabinets to hunt for cleaning supplies.

---