Page 78 of His Dark Vendetta

“Lobster carbonara,” he said in his delicious Italian accent, never taking his eyes off his work.

My stomach clenched, and I winced. This is why I avoided eating with others unless I was in a restaurant where I could order my own meal. Having to explain that I couldn’t eat whatever it was the person had so thoughtfully prepared went beyond embarrassing and straight to mortifying.

“How fancy,” I mumbled, dreading the awkward moment when I’d have to tell him I couldn’t eat cream sauce.

He huffed and set the pancetta aside. “We live in Boston, Siobhán. Lobster costs the same as chicken.” He grabbed the shallots and started peeling. “And it’s more flavorful. Gina used to make this a lot before we moved to Italy.”

“I—uh…” God, this was torture. “So, um… I can’t eat?—”

“Do you trust me?” He stopped his knife and looked over his shoulder.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

He set the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel, and plucked two containers off the counter. He stepped to where I stood poised with the wine and held them out, showing me their labels.

“Cashew Cream,” I read in awe. “Vegan Parmesan Cheese.” A bright warm light spread out from my heart and the bliss-filled grin I’d been holding back finally broke free. I looked up from the containers into one of Luca’s rare smiles that showed his teeth and reached his eyes. “How did you…”

He went back to the counter and resumed dicing. “After last night, I figured we could both use some comfort food. Lobster carbonara tastes like home to me. Takes me right back to the North End, sitting in the kitchen watching Mamma Gina make dinner. I googled your”—he waved his knife through the air—“conditions over lunch. Figured out what I needed to make this happen. Et voilà!”

Tears pricked my eyes. He had his back to me, but I faced the island anyway to dab them with the back of my sleeve. “Thank you,” I said hurriedly and poured the wine. “That was really thoughtful.” My voice caught, and I cleared my throat.

“No worries. It was easy.”

“No,” I said with more vehemence than I’d intended. “No, it’s not.” I handed him a glass, and he must have noticed the steel in my voice, because he set his knife down and studied me, eyebrows drawn together. “It’s a burden. On everyone, and they never forget to remind me.” I held up my glass. “Sláinte.”

“Salute.”

Light. Fruity. “Delicious. Thank you.”

“Like I said—easy. Hand me that pasta, will you?”

I grabbed the spaghetti off the island and handed it to him.

He set it on the counter, placed a big pot in the sink, and turned on the faucet. He leaned back and folded his arms. “And, for the record, it’s not a burden. Not in the slightest.”

I huffed. “I should revise that statement. It’s only a burden when they actually remember I have dietary restrictions. Most of the time it’s, ‘Oh, right, Vahnie, you can’t eat that, can you? Sorry. Here’s some bread.’”

I sipped my wine, but the bitterness lingered. “Do you know what it’s like preparing food you can’t eat? Especially when the people you’re preparing it for regularly and conveniently forgot about your lactose intolerance as a kid? The number of times I ate a mouthful of mashed potatoes only to spit it back out because it was filled with butter and sour cream… And that was before my stomach got ripped to shreds.”

Luca’s face darkened into a scowl. He turned off the water, took the pot out of the sink, and set it on the stove.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all riled up. I don’t usually talk about this, and it’s kind of a hot button issue for me.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Your mother is the one who needs to apologize.”

“No, it’s fine.” I walked around the island and hopped up on a barstool. “She did the best she could with what she had. Da and Rory were the priority. It’s how she was raised. And—” I caught myself.

“And what?” He eyed me over the rim of his wine glass.

The trees beyond the deck were budding. Some of them had even sprouted leaves. They rustled in the early evening breeze off the pond. There was a freshness there, so many new beginnings. Maybe that’s what was happening between me and Luca. Maybe we were turning over a new leaf. Maybe if I trusted him, he might learn to trust me.

But trusting men went against every lesson I’d learned. Don’t be vulnerable, you’ll only get hurt. Protect yourself, because no one else is looking out for Siobhán but Siobhán.

Then again, no man had ever taken me grocery shopping or researched my conditions or attempted to make me dinner. The same man had also crushed my heart. Multiple times.

The cashew cream and vegan parmesan cheese stared back at me from the counter. Maybe things were different this time.

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