Page 50 of Code Name: Dante

“Here.” She thrust both items at me. “Make yourself useful and chop these carrots.”

I accepted both without comment, taking my place at the counter beside Lark, who was already at work on the celery. Our arms brushed occasionally as we chopped, each brief contact sending warmth through my system that had nothing to do with the cozy kitchen.

“The trick to good soup,” Barbara said, stirring with her favorite wooden spoon, “is letting the flavors develop slowly. You can’t rush it.”

“Like anything worth having,” I said quietly, my eyes meeting Lark’s. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she returned to her task.

Barbara glanced between us, her expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” she said after a moment. “Though some things that seem worth having turn out to be more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Gram,” Lark protested.

“I’m just saying that young people often rush into things without considering all the implications.” She tasted the broth, adding a pinch more salt. “Life has a way of complicating even the simplest situations.”

I focused on the carrots, trying to keep my cuts even and precise. The quiet domesticity of the scene struck me again—how different it was from the tense family dinners of my childhood, where every word carried hidden meanings and threats.

“Did I ever tell you about that first winter after I opened the coffee shop?” Barbara asked, her voice warming with the memory. “Such bitter cold that year—people would come in just to warm their hands around their drinks.”

“You’ve told me,” Lark said with a fond smile. “How Mr. Patterson and his wife would camp out at his usual table all day, ordering refill after refill.”

“May she rest in peace.” Her grandmother crossed herself.

“Should I let everyone know dinner will be ready soon?” I asked.

Barbara raised a brow. “Some things take time, young man.” Her eyes found mine briefly. “Like trust.”

“Understood,” I said, acknowledging her warning.

“Do you?” She stirred the pot slowly. “My granddaughter seems to think so.”

“Gram, please.” Lark set her knife down. “Can we just have a nice conversation without?—”

“Without what?” Barbara’s voice sharpened. “Without a grandmother’s natural concern?”

“Without assumptions,” Lark finished firmly. “Alessandro has proven himself.”

The sound of my name on her lips still sent a thrill through me, even in this tense moment. Or maybe because of it. How she defended me to her grandmother, despite their close relationship, meant more than I could express.

“We’re ready for the noodles,” Barbara said after a long moment, her tone softening slightly. “Would you mind getting the flour from the cupboard and eggs from the refrigerator?” she said to me.

“How many?” I asked.

Barbara’s nostrils flared, but then she smiled. “The carton, Alessandro.”

That she’d teased wasn’t lost on me. A small olive branch, perhaps.

“You need equal parts flour and eggs,” she instructed, handing me a large mixing bowl. “One egg per person,” she added, her challenging eyes boring into mine.

She stood over my shoulder as I cracked six.

“Now, whisk them before adding the flour. Remember that the harder you stir, the tougher the noodles will be.”

I thought back to Lark teaching me how to whisk the Matcha and dug around for a wooden utensil.

“You do know how to properly whisk eggs, don’t you?” Barbara asked, handing me a fork.

“Apparently, with a fork,” I said under my breath with a wink.

“A little more thyme, I think,” Barbara said to Lark after tasting the broth again.

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