Page 81 of His Dark Vendetta

“Ah, yeah. Well, that movie blew my mind. Barbara Stanwyck was a force—fierce and independent. Vicious. And the plot? Whew! That movie still holds water, and it came out eighty years ago, can you believe that?”

“Never seen it.”

I slow-turned to face him. “Excuse me?”

“Cosa?”

“We need to remedy this situation immediately.”

He chuckled.

“Seriously. This is an egregious oversight.”

He held up a hand. “All right, all right. I’ll watch it.”

“Okay.” I turned back to my plate. “Just wanted to make sure.”

He chuckled again and shook his head. “You really love that movie, huh?”

“It’s what introduced me to Old Hollywood, and I’ve been hooked ever since. The movies, the aesthetic, the fashion.”

“I’d always wondered how you settled on your style.”

“Now you know.”

“It suits you,” he said, and his shy smile surprised me.

“Thank you.”

I twirled more pasta onto my fork and thought back to high school and how I’d taught myself pin curls. I’d even kept a notebook filled with ideas for my dream house once I finally got out of Southie.

“I think it was a way for me to escape, especially after the shooting. A way to create a world around me that was so different and far away from everything I knew and saw in the real world. Like I said, a comfort.”

“Like my violin.”

I met his eyes. “Like your violin.”

He nodded.

Halfway through my plate, I reached my stomach’s limits and had to stop. Anything more and I’d cross the line into problem territory.

I tossed my napkin on the counter, and Luca shoveled another huge bite into his mouth. He turned his fork through his dish, and his forearm flexed, biceps bulging from the bend in his elbow. I tore my eyes away from his muscles. The wolf had wrapped himself in sheep’s clothing, and like a fool, I ignored my better judgment and embraced his softer side.

“That was delicious,” I said. “I don’t get to eat dishes like this unless I go to a vegan restaurant, and with my schedule, I rarely have the time.”

He pointed at my plate with his fork. “You going to eat that?”

I laughed. “No, I’m stuffed. Go for it.”

He pushed his empty plate aside and slid mine in front of him. “You know,” he said and twirled pasta onto his fork, “you don’t have to quit. Marco keeps his business ventures separate. You’re safe there.”

I stood on the footrest and reached across the island to grab the wine. I poured a splash into my glass, swirled it, and drank.

“Trust me, I don’t want to quit. I love my job, and in terms of my career, I’m at the top of my game. Did you know, out of the handful of Michelin Three Key hotels in the US, Terme di Boston is the only one that has a woman for a General Manager?”

His head snapped up, and he stopped chewing. “No, I didn’t,” he said through his mouthful.

“Surprising in 2024, but true. The next closest Three Key is in New York City, and that’s too far from my parents, so…” I tossed back the rest of my wine, maudlin and resentful about what I’d given up because of my family. “Anyway, I do need to quit. I’m not safe there, Luca, and you know it.”

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