Page 29 of Extradition (Mobsters + Billionaires 1)
RAND
Portelli is in my kitchen,making homemade pasta. And apparently, I have a substandard pasta maker, one that his nonna—which I find out means his grandmother—would most certainly scoff at.
I’m fascinated, watching him work. He’s since divested himself of the coveralls and is standing in my kitchen barefoot, wearing soft worn jeans and that dangerous tank top, both molded to every beautiful muscle on his body.
If I’d had any idea what he was hiding underneath during our confrontation yesterday, I might have been more intimidated. Though intimidation is not something anyone who carries the Wolfe family name can feel, let alone own up to. If someone makes you feel intimidated, be the bigger asshole.
That, by the way, is the sum of my father’s wisdom.
Be the bigger asshole.
Take every penny off the table.
Find the line at which people will leave or stay, and then ride that line as hard as you can and never give so much as an inch.
Grayson disappears for a few moments then comes back with a bouquet of basil and a small basket of cherry tomatoes, still held together with bits of vine, perfectly orangey-red. From my perch at the window, I surreptitiously watch Portelli as he cooks.
When Portelli spies the tomatoes, his eyes crinkle at the edges with his broad, warm smile. “Oh, these are beauties. Perfect for the primavera. Grayson, you are a miracle worker.”
“Happy to help, Joe.”
They’re on a first-name basis? It’s not all that surprising when I think of it—I’ve already experienced Joseph Portelli struggling under the weight of propriety. Yes, the first thing he would ask is for Grayson to call him by his name.
Some people do that because they want you to think they’re friendlier than they really are, but that’s not Portelli. Even though he holds himself like a man capable of devastating violence, he’s actually being friendly. Human.
How strange.
Also strange is the small curl of jealousy that wraps itself around my rib cage. I wish I could say his name like that. Silly, of course. Portelli doesn’t need me to recognize his humanity.
In fact, I doubt the man needs anything from me at all. He’s singularly unimpressed with my wealth. If I understand correctly, he’s quite disgusted by it.
That thought sends energy zipping through my body, and something dangerously close to a chuckle rattles up from my chest. I don’t know why it feels so good to know he thinks so little of me.
My eyes dart back to the kitchen, and I catch Grayson’s eye. One eyebrow tastefully arches in my direction. Busted. I glance down, and by the time I look up again, Grayson has gone off to do whatever Grayson does to keep my life in order.
Suddenly, even though Portelli’s probably twenty feet away from me, the space with just the two of us in it feels intimate. Another silly notion, of course, because I have no feelings for the man.
Is he attractive? Sure. He’s beautiful in that rough working-class kind of way.
If I were to line him up with my typical discreet hookups, would they have a lot in common? Yes, again, but everyone likes ruggedly handsome men. I know my father doesn’t like to think of me as delicate, but he would believe differently if he ever saw any of my lovers.
Not that my sex life has anything to do with Portelli.
I shiver and bring myself back to the present.
From a certain angle, Portelli in my kitchen looks like the kind of life I might one day dream about having. Someone comfortable, barefoot in the kitchen, happily zipping about the space, cooking.
I am a modern man, of course, and can well afford to hire a professional cook for me and whoever I end up with. But the idea of someone cooking for me because they enjoy it…
Not because I’m wealthy.
Not because it’s just one of their many endless chores.
But because feeding the ones they love gives them satisfaction.
It’s clear Portelli is that kind of man. Gruff, though not entirely unrefined, and caring. I suppose he could have easily stepped back and let his brother do whatever he would to me. But he didn’t. He jumped into action.
I just wish I wasn’t so aware of him in my space. I understand he’s cooking to soothe his nerves, but he’s making enough pasta to feed a small army or a very large family. And I think he means for me to eat with him.
