Page 34 of Brutal Vows

“I made dinner,” I finally say, breaking the heavy silence when Vitali refuses to budge, his eyes fixed on me, waiting for some clarification. “It’s Lemon Chicken Piccata with roasted vegetables and angel hair pasta,” I add, my voice uncertain at seeing his unreadable expression.

“I see that.” Vitali nods, his face still a stoic mask. “Why?”

Why?He is asking me why I made a meal?

“I don’t know, Vitali,” I exclaim, throwing my hands up with a sigh of exasperation. “To eat. Do you not need food to sustain you, or do you just feed off other people’s misery to keep you full?” My voice echoes in the dimly lit kitchen.

Somewhere in the background, Dario lets out a loud, barking laugh. The clinking of cutlery against plates suggests he’s already digging into the meal, while I’m left here, standing with a wine opener in my hand, trying to understand why the neanderthal in front of me is suspicious about my simple act of making dinner.

“It isn’t poisoned, boss,” Dario affirms, his voice muffled and distorted by what is no doubt, a mouthful of food. The asshole’s mouth lifts in a smug smirk when I turn my head to level him with a baleful glare.

“Good to know.” Vitali shakes his head with a sigh, steps around me, and gently pries the wine opener from my grip. His movements are swift and practiced as he inserts the corkscrew into the bottle’s cork, twisting it with precision. The sound of the cork popping echoes softly in the room. He expertly pours the white wine into three glasses before taking his seat at the head of the table.

“Are you joining us, Gia?”

I blink a few times, trying to dispel the unexpectedwarmth the domestic scene has irrationally stirred inside of me. If I ever decide to visit a therapist, that strange sensation will definitely be one of the topwhat the fucktopics I discuss. With a slight shake of my head, I manage to regain my focus and slide into the chair on Vitali’s left, smoothing the fabric of my shirt as I settle in.

Before I can protest, Vitali takes my plate and heaps it with food, placing it back in front of me once it’s piled high.

“I can’t eat all this, Vitali,” I try to object. His stern gaze silences me and like a petulant child having been reprimanded by a parent, I start to dig in. Lifting my fork, I spear a slice of the golden chicken. Lifting it to my lips, I savor the zing of fresh citrus and capers mellowed by the buttery sauce, the tartness dancing on my palate before giving way to the mild, roasted undertones of the succulent chicken.

It tastes like home.

A heavy ache coils around my heart when I think of Italy. My father’s house has never been a home for me, but Rome is and always will be. I miss everything about it. The grandeur of the Colosseum, the tranquil Tiber River, and quiet nights on Piazza Navona filled with lighthearted laughter and clinking wine glasses alike.

Part of me yearns for those dusky evenings under pink skies where passionate street musicians played melodic symphonies that echo through St Peter’s Square, a sight I’ve always loved to take in while sitting quietly at its steps. Those are the moments I always cherish, the ones in between the cracks of reality when I managed to escape the prison Faro Nardoni calls a home.

“This is delicious,piccola cerva,” Vitali praises me with a small smile. “I’ve had five-star chefs make food that is of less quality than this.”

His praise causes a warm flush to spread over myneck, turning it a noticeable shade of crimson. I try to play it cool, offering a casual shrug of one shoulder, as if to brush off the compliment I secretly savor. No one but my Florence, our family chef, has ever complimented my cooking before. When your one duty is to become the perfect Italian housewife, being a good cook isn’t something that is complimented. It is expected.

“It’s nothing.” I spear a brussels sprout, popping it into my mouth to avoid having to talk about it any further. A tactic that doesn’t work when it comes to Vitali De Luca.

“It isn’t nothing, Gia,” Vitali assures me, a confidence in his voice that has my chest swelling. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“Our family chef, Florence,” I tell him, licking my lower lip anxiously. “It was expected I learn to cook, but she always taught me more than the expected. Said she’s never trained someone who had a knack for cooking like me before.”

Vitali hummed as if he agreed. “Your mother is a chef,” he says, smiling as if he is recalling a fond memory. “Isn’t she? Owns her own restaurant, if I remember correctly.”

Surprised by his knowledge about my mother, and I swivel to face him, my heart skipping a beat as I search his face for answers.

“You knew her?” The words come out barely above a whisper.

Something passes quietly between Vitali and Dario—surprise? I haven’t seen the great Vitali De Luca taken off guard, but something about my question has shocked him.

“Knew her?” he questions, setting his cutlery across his plate, giving me his full attention. “Why do you speak of her in the past tense?”

The past tense?

Holy shit. He doesn’t know what happened to her all those years ago. The night his father was brutally murdered.

“She’s dead.” The lump in my throat is hard to swallow. I try to bite back the tears, but a few manage to escape, creating small rivers down my cheeks.

Vitali frowns. “What do you mean she’s dead?”

The muscles in my jaw clench.

“She died in the bombing that took out your father’s men,” I grit out. “My father sent her to serve them drinks before your father’s arrival.”

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