Page 33 of Ruined By Blood
His lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." I take a tentative step into the kitchen. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."
Enzo studies me, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he reaches for another glass from the cabinet beside him. "Drink?"
I hesitate. "What is it?"
"Whiskey." He holds the bottle up. "Blanton's Gold. Too good to drink alone."
"Just a little," I say, surprising myself as I move to the island.
He pours a small measure into the glass and slides ittoward me, watching as I perch on the stool across from him, keeping the island between us like a shield.
I take a tiny sip and try not to grimace at the burn. "Do you always drink at three in the morning?"
"Only on the good days." His mouth curves into something too grim to be called a smile.
I wrap my fingers around the glass, feeling its smooth coolness against my skin.
"Why are you awake?" I finally ask.
Enzo takes a long drink before answering. "Same reason as you, I'd guess." When I tilt my head in question, he elaborates. "Too many thoughts. Too loud to sleep through."
I take another sip of the whiskey, the burn less shocking this time. The alcohol spreads a gentle warmth through my chest, loosening something tight that's been wound inside me for days.
"Are you hungry?" Enzo asks suddenly, setting his glass down. "I just realized we never had dinner."
I glance at the clock on the microwave. 3:17 a.m. "It's the middle of the night."
"So? Hunger doesn't check the time." He stands up, stretching his arms overhead. The motion pulls his shirt up slightly, revealing a strip of tattooed skin above his waistband. I quickly avert my eyes.
"I can make us something," he offers, moving toward the refrigerator.
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound is rusty, unfamiliar in my throat.
Enzo turns, one eyebrow raised. "What's funny?"
"Sorry, it's just..." I shake my head, still smiling despite myself. "The thought of you cooking. It's hard to imagine."
"Why's that?"
"I don't know." I gesture vaguely at him. "You don't exactly look like the cooking type."
His expression shifts to mock offense. "I'll have you know, I'm Italian. Cooking is in my blood." He places a hand over his heart dramatically. "My nonna would roll in her grave if I couldn't make a decent meal."
The playfulness in his tone catches me off guard. This version of him seems almost normal.
"What kind of food do you like?" he asks.
I hesitate, not used to being asked about my preferences. "I like Italian food, actually," I admit. "When I could choose."
Something flickers across his face at my last words, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he nods decisively. "Then I'll make you my favorite. It's simple, but good."
He turns back to the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients with purpose—eggs, cheese, a package of what looks like pancetta. His movements are efficient as he gathers olive oil, pasta from a cabinet, and black pepper from a wooden spice rack.
"What are you making?" I ask, curious despite myself.
"Carbonara. Real carbonara, not the cream-soaked abomination they serve in American restaurants." He sets a pot of water on to boil. "My mother taught me how to make it when I was twelve. Said every Italian man should know how to cook at least one perfect dish."
