Page 45 of Ruined By Protection
The mansion is quiet as I make my way downstairs. Damiano's at the office, Zoe's at some charity committee meeting, and Lucrezia's with Hazel. The only sound is the distant clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen.
I follow the noise and the mouthwatering aroma of garlic and herbs. Ettore, our chef, stands at the massive center island, muttering to himself in rapid Italian as he chops something with meticulous expertise.
"Whatever that is, I want some," I announce as I enter.
Ettore looks up, his round face breaking into a grin. "Matteo! Perfect timing. I need a test subject."
I raise an eyebrow as I slide onto one of the barstools at the island. "Test subject sounds dangerous."
"Bah!" He waves the razor-sharp knife dismissively. "For you, maybe I should try poison, eh? Save some poor woman from your charm."
I smirk at the familiar banter. Ettore's been cooking for the family since before I joined, and he's one of the few people who treats me like a normal human being rather than Damiano's enforcer.
"What are you making?" I ask, eyeing the array of ingredients spread across the marble countertop.
"Something new for Friday's dinner." He gestures proudly to a pan where golden parcels of pasta are arranged in neat rows. "Cappellacci di zucca con salvia e burro nocciola."
"Pumpkin cappellacci with sage and brown butter," I translate automatically. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.
"Not just any pumpkin," Ettore corrects, wagging a flour-dusted finger at me. "Special heirloom variety from my cousin's farm in Emilia-Romagna. Imported last week."
Of course. Nothing but the best for the Feretti table.
Ettore slides a plate toward me with three of the plump pasta parcels, drizzled with glistening brown butter and topped withcrispy sage leaves. The rich, nutty aroma makes my mouth water instantly.
"Tell me what you think," he demands, crossing his arms over his chest. "Be honest."
I cut into one of the cappellacci with the side of a fork. The pasta yields, revealing a vibrant orange filling. I take a bite and close my eyes as the flavors hit my tongue—sweet, earthy pumpkin balanced with the sharp tang of aged Parmigiano, wrapped in silky al dente pasta and bathed in nutty brown butter.
"Cristo," I mutter after swallowing. "That's incredible."
Ettore beams with pride. "You think the Don will approve?"
"If he doesn't I'll personally handle his removal as head of the family then report him to the Culinary Institute," I joke, already cutting into the second piece.
I'm halfway through demolishing the third cappellacci when the kitchen door swings open. Lucrezia's voice floats in first, followed by light laughter that stops me mid-chew.
"...and then Noah actually tried to convince the waiter it was a traditional Italian custom!"
Hazel's laughter—bright and unguarded—sounds like a fucking virtuoso melody. I look up just as they enter and for a split second, I catch sight of her smiling. It transforms her face completely, softening the wariness I've seen since she arrived. She looks younger, lighter.
Then her eyes land on me.
The smile vanishes instantly. Her shoulders tense and she takes an almost imperceptible step back, like a prey animal spotting a predator.
Fuck.
I force myself to continue eating, stabbing the pasta with more force than necessary.
"Matteo," Lucrezia says, surprise evident in her voice. "I thought you'd be at the casino all day."
I swallow before answering. "Finished early."
Lucrezia rolls her eyes at my brevity, then turns to Hazel. "Don't mind him. He communicates primarily in grunts and glares."
Hazel's lips twitch but she doesn't smile again. Her eyes flick to me, then away, like she can't bear to look at me for more than a second.
"What are you eating?" Lucrezia asks, moving closer to peer at my plate.
