Page 77 of Mafia King of Lies

“Jesus, how long did I sleep?”

I reach for my phone, which I remember placing on the coffee table, but instead, I find a small white sheet of paper. I pick it up, read the messy writing, and smile.

Join me for dinner?

I stare at the words for a moment, my chest tightening unexpectedly. Matteo. True to his word, he made it home after three hours and not a moment more. When did he get here?

I push the blanket aside and rise to my feet, moving toward the soft light spilling from the dining room. What I find there makes me stop in my tracks. The table is set for two, candles flickering between two plates of steaming curry and what looks to be jasmine rice—my favorite, but how did he know that?

The sight of it—of him—leaves me momentarily speechless. His eyes find mine, and the small smile that comes to his lips makes my heart pound in my chest. The candlelight contours his face, defining his already sharp jaw that much more.

Matteo stands near the table, his hands in his pockets, his posture a little too stiff, like he’s uncertain about how I’ll react. For a man who commands rooms full of killers without hesitation, it’s almost endearing to watch him be nervous.

I step forward slowly, my voice softer than I intended. “What’s all of this?”

His lips twitch slightly as if he wants to smirk but isn’t sure if he should. “If we are going to do this for real, then I want to do it right. I think a first date is long overdue, don’t you?”

“A first date? A little backward, aren’t we?” I chuckle, feeling the blush rise to my cheeks.

“Yes, it kind of is. But I did agree to try.” He rubs the back of his neck with his hand, and I have never seen him look so boyish. “Please join me.”

I hesitate for a moment, taking in the sight before me. The warm glow of the candlelight flickers between us. Slowly, I step closer to the table until I come up to the chair. I reach to pull it out myself but he stops me.

“Allow me,” he whispers right by my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. All the fatigue has left me now.

He helps me into his chair and his hand grazes my neck and I shudder. It’s maddening how easily he unravels me—his touch, his scent, the mere sight of him.

Matteo settles into his own seat and looks at me waiting. “It’s chicken curry and jasmine rice.”

I nod. “I can see that. But how did you know to make this for me? You look like a steak kind of man.”

That nervous laugh of his returns. His eyes shine like a thousand shooting stars as he stares at me. “I am but I wanted you to have some comfort food. Your mother tells me that you love a good chicken curry.”

“You spoke to my mother?”

He nods. “After she scolded me, of course. She made sure to remember her promise to me on the day of our wedding. I told her it would stick with me for life.”

I tilt my head to the side and observe him for a moment. “What promise?”

“She said she would find eighteen different ways to kill me if I didn’t take care of you.” He blinks at me. “She was deathly serious too. I believe her.”

I sputter out a laugh and think of my sweet mother. “Of course she would.”

“Try it—I tried to make it the way that your mother does back home.” He waits for me to try the curry and I have to fight back a smile. This man is just too cute right now.

I pick up my fork and take a bite, and the moment the flavors hit my tongue, I let out a small, surprised hum. “This is actually good. It tastes like home.”

Matteo exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve ever heard from him. “I’m sure your mother would kill me if it wasn’t. It’s her recipe that I would have botched.”

The tension between us shifts slightly—still present, still heavy, but no longer suffocating. For the first time since ourwedding, aren’t caught in a constant push and pull of resistance and surrender.

We’re simply existing together.

The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels… oddly peaceful. Then, without thinking, I ask the one question I know I shouldn’t.

“This is real, right?”

Matteo pauses, his fork hovering just above his bowl. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sets his fork down, leaning back slightly in his chair.

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