Page 39 of Cook

Ah, fuck. Why’d she have to look so desperate for me to agree?

“Yeah,” I said with a sigh.

Maddie bit her bottom lip, and I thumbed it free from her teeth.

“What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice a little stern. She responded better that way.

“Can I listen to music while I clean? Do you have headphones?”Maddie tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear.

I scoffed. “Yeah.” She could listen to anything she wanted. Any time. Freedom was hers, but she didn’t seem to understand that.

She frowned.

So I said, “Yes, you can, Maddie. I didn’t realize you like music.”

When we left the recovery house, she hadn’t said a word about the music playing in my Bronco. I hadn’t asked for her opinions about what we listened to; I just wanted something to fill the void between us. And keep her from calling me... that word she seemed intent on using. It might as well have been a four-letter word.

Maddie nodded. “As long as it’s not opera or classical.”

“Really?” I walked away from her and into the kitchen.

I hadn’t planned to bring her here. If the cleaning closet was that bare, what about everything else? Opening cabinets and the fridge, I discovered my truth. The emptiness of this house. The absence of anything to make it seem like home.

I only slept in this house when I needed somewhere to crash that wasn’t Mom’s house. Phoenix felt too far away from the Ridge at times.

Maddie said, “Tommy G. made me to listen to music while he had phone calls or meetings. Always something with a bellowing woman or whining violins.”

My blood ran cold. “Tommy G?” I wasn’t sure, but I suspected she meant the Don of la Famiglia... the head of the Gambino family. Tommaso Gambino. The bastard who was in the pen, thanks to a failed assassination attempt on some hot-shot politician in California. I tried not to keep up with that shit, but I knew he was Signora Amaranta Gambino’s husband before our man in LA, Sas, shot the bitch.

“He owned Enigma.”

Yep, one and the same Tommy Gambino. I peeked over my shoulder. I didn’t want to fucking talk about, let alone think about, him. “Don’t ever say his name around me again.”

Watching me with wide eyes, she slowly nodded her head.

I almost felt bad about that as I slammed the empty cabinets shut. “What kind of music do you think?”

She shrugged. “What were you listening to in the car?”

“Classic rock.”

“That’ll do.”

“Do you have favorites?”

“No. I just like the sound. I like how my body moves to it. It’s like I can give the music control and turn off—”

She cut herself off, and I glanced over with a raised brow. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem keen on finishing the thought. I had an inkling about what she was turning off. Hell, the voices in my head took years to shut the fuck up after my trauma. Hers lasted so much longer than mine.

I let the silence linger, thinking I wanted to see how her body moved to the music too. “I’ve got earbuds in my saddlebags. I’ll get you some music before I leave.”

Her big eyes turned scared. “Where are you going?”

“Shopping. I gotta get some food. And cleaning supplies,” I said. “If that’s really what you want to do?”

Her lips curled into a smile, warming my heart.

“The house isn’t exactly guest ready. Or really any people. It will need some fixing up.” I would probably have to find some tools in the shed—I shuddered—to fix the shower head. I reached over and turned on the faucet, letting water pour into the dusty sink. After letting it run for a second, I ran my hand under the stream. It was warming up, so the old water heater must still be kicking. Other than that, I had no idea what still worked and what didn’t.

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