Page 78 of Mafia King: Matteo
“Oh, my, it’s true! I heard that you were modest and full of kindness. You are too good for your own good,” he mutters as he walks to a large machine with an Italian name sprawled in bold font along the metal front.
“Where did you hear that?” I wonder who has been talking.
“I can’t reveal my sources. Matteo wouldn’t like us talking. I think you need to have a real espresso,” he adds quickly, changing the subject.
“Great.” I accept his offer because the idea makes him happy. He begins to fiddle with the machine in the opposite corner of the kitchen. I think he’s excited to show me he can make a perfect drink.
The coffee grinder’s growl and hum fill the air, and the smell of freshly ground beans greets my nose. I watch as he maneuvers the attachment, twists it into the machine, and slips a cup under the spiral that resembles two metal units that spit out coffee until it’s a stream that fills the cup halfway.
“Sugar?”
“Yes, please.” I teeter on the edge of my chair and watch as he dedicates himself to the tiny spoon, sprinkling sugar into the cup, swirling it twice, and placing it on a saucer. He picks up an aluminum shaker labeled cinnamon and dusts the top of the froth with the brown powder before crossing the expansive kitchen floor and sliding it before me.
He stands on his side of the island and waits.
I lift the drink to my lips. The cup is warm to the touch. I use the tiny handle on the side and take a dainty sip. It’s incredible. It’s the best espresso I’ve ever sipped.
“This is fantastico,” I say, using one of the few Italian words I know because it’s like English.
“Ah, bene,” he replies. “What will you eat? Matteo will not be happy if you skip meals. He was very angry that you had chips for lunch yesterday.”
“It’s a bad habit. What do you feel like cooking?”
“Anything you want. I have it all.”
“I’m hungry. Would it be okay to eat poached eggs on toast with smashed avocados? It sounds very princess-like to me.” I smile as I finish my espresso before it’s cold.
“Splendid. It will take only a few minutes. What do you have planned for the day? What do you want for dinner?”
“I have no idea. Is Matteo home?”
“He’s been in his study with the door closed since dawn.”
“Do you live here?”
“I live nearby. I’m here twelve hours a day, every day. I get out when Matteo is gone for the day to shop and run errands.”
“What about your family and friends? That’s too many hours.”
“I am happy to be here. I came with Matteo as I’ve been with him for years. I’m a retired chef, but we are from the same neighborhood in Sicily. He pays me very well. I can’t complain. My work was my life, and now I’m here.”
I want to ask more questions, but I refrain from doing so because I don’t want to appear nosy. Learning more about my husband-to-be will take time.
Federico serves me breakfast on a white plate decorated with parsley garnish and silverware wrapped in a stiff napkin. He makes another espresso for me. I eat and thank him.
“It’s my job. There is no need for that,” he replies.
“Nonsense, what do you recommend for dinner?”
“I can make fresh dough and put together Caprese pizzas with fresh mozzarella, thinly sliced tomatoes, and balsamic drizzled on top.”
“My mouth is watering,” I reply. “Where is Matteo?”
He nods toward the house’s interior, and I set off searching for the King who owns it.
CHAPTER 27
MATTEO
