Page 83 of Forgotten Sacrifice
I do so, watching him work. Vince moves purposefully yet gracefully, a man confident in his abilities. “You’re happiest in the kitchen,” I comment. “Did you ever dream about becoming a chef?”
He shakes his head, ladling something red into a bowl. “The odds of that happening were zero to none.”
“Forget about the odds; I’m talking about dreaming.”
“Telling an oddsmaker to forget the odds is like telling a chess player to forget opening principles.”
“Look at you throwing around chess terms.”
He smiles, carrying the bowl to the table and placing it before me. “Uova in Purgatoria. Eggs in Purgatory, withfilonefor dipping.”
“Filone?”
“Crispy loaf, similar to a French baguette.”
“If only Frenchie were here to tell us which is better.” I verbally poke him.
“If Frenchie were here, I’d tie him to the chair, fuck you on the table and make him watch, and then I’d gouge out his eyes for having watched.”
I squirm, my pussy aching with need. Nicky’s wrong: I’m completely fucked up.
I sprawl out on the couch, pretending to study for my exam. Vince sits on the other end, reading the newspaper. Feelinghis eyes on me, I tease my bottom lip as I sit up, jutting my tits out as I pile my hair on top of my head.
“Luna,” Vince says.
“Yes, Daddy?” I ask innocently.
“I have some business to handle, and then I’ll be back to get you.Ifyou want to go to New York, you will dress appropriately.”
“Fine.” No idea why Vince suddenly trusts me alone in his house, but his blunder is my advantage.
He walks off, and I give it a minute before tiptoeing down the hallway. Placing my ear on his door, I wait until I hear the shower running before entering. His keys are on the nightstand, and I quietly grab them, removing the key that I’ve never seen him use. I twist until it’s off the ring, my heart racing as I twist on my old key to my dorm room in its place. If Vince looks closely, he’ll spot the difference, but I’m banking on him not paying attention.
Placing the keys exactly as I found them, I tiptoe out and quietly pull the door to. Returning to my spot on the couch, Vince joins me a few minutes later, dressed in his non-businesshawtNew York attire. His brown hair is wet from the shower, and I’m itching to run my fingers through it, but I keep my hands planted firmly by my sides.
“Behave. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I hold up my hands like paws and pant, and he mutters something under his breath as he walks out.
Waiting until I hear the garage door open and close, I give it several minutes in case Vince doubles back. All clear, and I sprint down the hall. Sliding the key in the lock, my heart’s pounding as it turns, and I step inside.
Flipping on the light, I take a look around. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it’s a boring office with a desk, file cabinet, and printer.
I start with the file cabinet, checking out the signedbaseball displayed in a case. Can’t read the chicken scratch, even if I knew anything about baseball, which I don’t.
Opening the drawers, I search through paperwork. A copy of the deed to his house. Business documents transferring the sports bar from Vince to his brother. Boring Income tax returns.
Moving to his desk, I sit in the leather chair and open a spiral notebook.Recipes. The mobster safeguards his recipes under lock and key.
Pizza Margarita. Eggplant involtini. Risotto with mushrooms. Steak, chicken, and pork dishes. Fancy antipastos. Salads. Twenty different kinds of pasta. The last recipe, he’s writtenNonna’s Gravy ?????
There’s a rudimentary sketch of an outdoor dining space, a layout of the kitchen, and the dining room.
Vince does dream!
Closing the notebook, I search the desk drawer, finding a gold letter opener. Who the hell has a gold letter opener? Putting the heavy thing back where I found it, I grab a small glass jar, screaming when I see what’s preserved inside.
An eyeball. Why the fuck does Vince have an eyeball?
