Page 19 of The Don

“I thought you wanted me to taste the sauce,” I mumble into his left shoulder, in no hurry to let him go. Unfortunately, my rumbling stomach betrays me.

“Sit,” Salvatore says, his voice full of both warmth and impatience. “It will be good. I promise.”

I reluctantly let him go and resume my seat. I feel parched after only briefly touching him and take a long gulp of water. I put the glass on the table. Salvatore turns to eye it and me. He mutters something under his breath as he walks to the refrigerator.

“What are you saying?” I ask while he fills my cup.

“I’ll tell you after you eat,” he laughs.

“Liar,” I mutter under my breath, but I’m smiling.

He puts the pitcher down on the table and then bends over, brushing his mouth across my forehead. “I’ve been called worse.” He presses the now-full glass of water into my hands and returns to the stove.

I smile at his back and gulp most of the glass down in a few sips.

“So, do you cook at the restaurant too?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He says that word lightly as if it’s a joke, one that I clearly don’t get.

“Why not?”

He throws the almost-cooked pasta into the pan and begins to toss it in the sauce. I lean to the side to see what I can, suddenly mesmerized.

“But if you know how to cook…” I ask.

He deposits the pasta into a bowl on the counter next to him. My mouth waters, watching him grate a small mountain of parmesan onto it.

“A little more,” I groan when he tries to stop.

He laughs, grating until I’m satisfied. He’s a flutter of elegance after that as he sets the table in front of me — the large bowl of pasta, smaller bowls for each of us, a salad he chopped while I was sitting in this same chair doing little more than lusting after him.

“I could get used to this,” I mutter under my voice as he dishes some pasta into my bowl.

“This is nothing,” he says nonchalantly.

I place my hand on his forearm, and a few leaves of lettuce fall onto my salad plate. He asks me a question with just a dip of his eyebrows.

“You’re underestimating yourself,” I tell him. “And overestimating how terrible American men can be.”

He grunts that compliment away. “Italian men can be terrible as well,” he says gravely. “You must trust me on this.”

I sigh, seeing how we’ve talked ourselves into this corner. I want to say that he’s underestimating how bad my last relationship was. I want to finally tell him that meeting him forced me to face all the things I’d been avoiding for years, but I don’t want to mention Steve to Salvatore and ruin the mood.

And for his part, I can see the warning he’s trying to give indirectly. I know what he means, what he wants me to understand. He’s been called worse than a liar.Hecan be terrible.

“Not to me, though,” I say, thankful as fuck that Zoe is not here to hear this foolishness come out of my mouth. I mean, I believe it — I don’t know why, but I do. But I also know that I sound like a fool. I don’t take those words back, though.

He sits heavily in his chair. His face is flushed red. I might have assumed that it was just the heat of the kitchen, except he’s avoiding my eyes.

I squeeze his arm.

He grabs my hand in his and kisses my palm and the back of my wrist. “Not to you.Neverto you,” he whispers against my skin. “Now eat. Please.”

10SALVATORE

I makesure Shae eats as much as possible. I try not to count the number of hours since she likely last had a proper meal. That information might take years from my life, and I couldn’t bear it; not now.

Besides, I have the distinct feeling that if I try and ask her how long since she last ate, she will lie. Maybe not convincingly, but she would try, and I don’t want to force her to tell me what I already know. So, I keep piling pasta and salad in front of her and even feed her from my own plate until she finally pushes my fork away.

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