Page 8 of The Mafia's Seamstress

"Is that-'' Before I could finish Mr. Costa smirked.

"This is your grandpa's favorite. Figured you would like it," he said. He walked over and set the takeout container in front of me. It was the good kind. One I could easily reuse at home. I tilted my head back to stare into his gray eyes. A strand of black hair fell forward and I was tempted to brush it back.

“Your food,” he said, his voice husky.

“Thank you Mr. Costa,” I said, keeping his gaze. The side of his mouth twitched.

“Mr. Costa uh?” he said it as if it was funny. He finally walked away and I greedily grabbed the container. The delicious beef stew was still hot. The smell made my mouth water. I haven’t had a proper meal all day.

"Carne guisada goes really well with ri-” he held up a carton of rice, cutting me off. I fought back a smile and he came back to my side with the side dish.

“I know,” he said.

Memories of Sunday lunch with the family floated around as we ate in silence. My mom and avó would be in the kitchen while my avô and dad were outside grilling and watching a soccer game. I faintly remember other people from the Portuguese community being there.

My avós house was the house for the community. Everyone was always coming over to hang out and eat food. I felt a prickle in the back of my head. Things changed drastically when my parents and my avó died. I had lost them around the same time.

After that things changed and the community fell apart. Now while we walked around giving pleasantries to each other there was distance. Even with Senhora Maria it was as if there was something hanging between us. I stared at my food. It tasted so much of the home I used to have and forgot about.

“Did you get this from Duarte’s Cozinha?” I asked. He nodded quietly, taking a bite of pasta. My brain rummaged through my childhood memories. Duarte’s Cozinha had always been one of the only Portuguese restaurants in Loba Vista that offered breakfast, lunch and dinner. And now it is being run by Duarte Jr.

“Dj was always a great cook. Took after his grandpa,” I said, taking a bite. “I’m happy he’s keeping it going,” I said, swallowing hard.

“It’s always good to see the kids take on the tradition and keep it alive,” Mr. Costa said. My stomach tightened. One day this shop would mine. Something I always wanted to keep going. But my problem now was the mafia.

“Thank you,” I said quietly after a bit. Mr. Costa leaned back in surprise as he wiped his lips.

"I believe that's the first nice thing you've said to me, Cinderella," he said.

“I’m ready to take it back,” I said, blankly.

“But then you wouldn’t have dessert,” he said as pulled a small container from the bag. I raised an eyebrow.

“Depends on the dessert,” I said, crossing my arms. His lips formed a smirk I was becoming addicted to. He opened it, revealing one of my favorite Portuguese desserts.

“Is that bolacha maria?!” I said in shock. I hadn’t had it in a long time. It was a layered cake of egg custard, cookies dipped in espresso and whip cream topped with cinnamon.

“Say thank you again and it’s yours,” he teased. I looked at him and then the dessert.

“You should give me dessert seeing how I have to work overtime to make your suit,” I pointed out. He looked at me for a second before sliding the cake over to me. “Smart choice Mr. Costa,” I said with a smirk.

My mouth watered as I dug a spoon into its creamy deliciousness. A groan escaped my lips and I felt Mr. Costa’s stare. My mouth exploded in flavors of sugar, cinnamon and coffee. He shifted in his seat and muttered something in Italian.

My brain began to attempt to translate. I didn’t speak Italian but I spoke Spanish and Portuguese. Once you knew one romance language it wasn’t hard to figure out the others. If I got it right I think he said, that noise will get you in trouble.

My cheeks flushed. The familiar feeling from before began spreading. He said that from hearing me moan about the cake which was in fact moan worthy. He, however, was not. At least that’s what I kept trying to convince myself. But it was hard when he looked the way he did and made me feel things I knew I shouldn’t be feeling.

“Nos seus sonhos,” I said in Portuguese and from the look in his eyes I had translated his Italian correctly. His gray gaze heated for a second. A slow smirk stretched across his face.

“Oh they will be Cinderella," he said in English. I scoffed at him.

"No they won't," I retorted.

"And who are you to tell me what to do while I’m dreaming?” he asked, leaning on the table. Fuck. There I went, being interesting again. But Mr. Costa felt like burning fire and his flames enticed me.

"Lucia Silva," I said, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly. I was well aware this man could snap my neck in half but for some reason I wanted to see how far I could push him.

"I don't like your attitude," he said as his nostrils flared.

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