Page 25 of Mob Boss's Second Chance

“But,” he continues, his tone shifting to something more earnest, “I didn’t want anyone else aside from you to handle it. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time?” He gives me a boyish grin, the kind that’s hard to resist.

For a moment, I glance at the kitchen in disbelief, taking in the sheer amount of work laid out before me. “You’re serious about this?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Dead serious,” Anthony replies with a mock, solemn nod, though the glimmer in his eyes betrays his amusement.

I fold my arms and let out a soft laugh, shaking my head as I turn back to the task at hand. “Alright. Let’s see what I can do.”

He kisses me on the cheek enthusiastically. “You’re the best.”

After he leaves, I find an apron in one of the drawers and get to work. My phone sits on the island—that also doubles as a seconddining space carved into its corner—and soft music plays as I move from corner to corner, chopping and slicing.

The hours melt away as I twirl around the kitchen, completely absorbed in the rhythm of cooking. My head bobs along to the music playing, and a light hum escapes my lips as I lose myself in the task.

The smells of garlic, spices, and herbs fill the air, mingling with the faint citrusy tang of the cleaning products I’d used earlier.

I sway toward the fridge, still caught in the rhythm, reaching for the handle without looking. My hand brushes against something warm—startlingly warm—and I gasp, my heart jumping in surprise.

Turning quickly, I see him standing there, leaning casually against the counter. His dark eyes are watching me with a mix of amusement and something else I can’t quite place.

But as quickly as the amusement comes, before I can even register it, it fades into a scowl.

“I’m sorry,” I step back. “I didn’t see you there.”

He nods. “I know.”

Oh.

It feels like I should say something else, but my thoughts are nowhere near a coherent response. Instead, my thoughts stray to something else—like his appearance.

He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants that sit low on his waist with a peek of his well-toned Andonis line. It clings to his calves, showing off what has to be the result of genetics and a consistent gym routine.

If we’re judging by his cousin, Anthony, I’d say the former more than the latter.

Some people just have it all.

My gaze tilts to his loose-fitting grey shirt, which covers his chest but is off at the shoulders—deliberately like someone tore the sleeves out in a fit of rage.

Almost like the scar on his back.

Even though it’s covered, I can still see it. The uneven ends start just below his neck and end at his waistline, almost cutting across his spine.

I don’t realize how intently I’m staring until Ethan suddenly glances over his shoulder, his sharp gaze meeting mine.

His expression is unreadable, a flicker passing through his eyes before his lips curve into a tight line.

“See something interesting?” he asks as he moves away from the fridge, his tone even but laced with an unspoken challenge.

Heat creeps up my neck, and I quickly reach for the fridge as a refuge, feigning interest in its contents. “No,” I say too quickly, grabbing the first thing I see—a bottle of water—and shutting the door.

In my haste to retreat, I trip over my feet and stumble with my hands flailing out. The bottle of water falls to the floor, but I manage to catch myself before face-planting.

“Phew,” I exhale as sweat breaks out across my forehead, crouching to grab the bottle. As I stand, I see Ethan over my shoulder, standing with his arms folded.

Saying nothing.

Wait.

I frown as I spin around, thrusting my hands on my waist. “You were here,” I say. “You watched me stumble and almost fall. Why didn’t you help?”

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