Page 167 of Ruins
“Are you two in need of a snack?” he asks with a smile.
“No, thank you,” I reply, heading straight for the fridge and pulling out containers of leftovers from last night’s dinner. “Just heating up some lunch.”
Angelo sits at the breakfast bar, his eyes following me as I pull the leftovers from the fridge, the faint aroma of garlic and herbs already making my mouth water. Julian steps in to help, carefully taking the containers from me.
“Will you be joining us for dinner, Don Amato?” Julian asks.
Angelo keeps his eyes on me and shakes his head. “No, I can’t tonight.”
When the microwave beeps, Julian grabs the containers.
“This is too hot for you to handle, Mrs. Amato,” he teases, offering a friendly grin. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll plate it for you.”
I hesitate but follow his suggestion, slipping onto the stool beside Angelo. His gaze is still steady on me, and I can feel the weight of it even as I focus on the sound of Julian arranging our plates.
“So, tell me about Santo when he was younger,” I ask, breaking the silence with a small smile.
Angelo’s brows lift in amusement. “Younger Santo? He was a pain in my ass,” he says, chuckling. “Smart as hell, though. Always outthinking everyone, including me.”
I laugh softly. “I can’t relate. I’m the eldest, and clearly the smartest.”
His chuckle deepens, a low, rich sound that catches me off guard. “I’ll take your word for it, Piccola.”
Julian sets our plates down, nodding politely before excusing himself. Angelo watches him go, his gaze lingering, before returning to me. “I hear you’re a talented artist,” he says, his tone shifting to something softer.
“Yes,” I reply, surprised by the question. “Painting is… an escape for me.”
His eyes sharpen slightly, the teasing glimmer replaced by something more thoughtful. “Do you often need an escape?” he asks, his voice low before taking a bite of his spinach and feta ravioli.
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
“This is delicious,” Angelo says with appreciation. “You did a great job, Tiny.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile. “Amelia helped me.”
Angelo nods and we continue to eat our meals in comfortable silence. Surprisingly, I am thoroughly enjoying my time with him. The simple act of sharing a meal and having an easy conversation makes me miss Santo even more.
I watch as Angelo roughly wipes his mouth with a crisp napkin, his light eyes sparkling with amusement. “What’s your favorite dish?” I inquire, genuinely curious.
“Pasta with vodka sauce, or any kind of rich red sauce,” he replies with a hint of pride in his voice. “I like the color.”
“Simple tastes,” I remark, surprised at his answer.
“I’m a simple man,” he retorts with a smirk, but there is a glimmer in his eyes that hints at a deeper complexity.
I scoff and playfully roll my eyes, “You are far from simple, Mr. Amato.”
“You call me Angelo, Piccola,” he teases, pointing a finger at me as if scolding a child.
Angelo’s phone begins to ring, and Luca enters the kitchen. Excusing himself, Angelo steps away to take the call, leaving me alone with Luca.
“Where have you been?” I ask curiously, watching him as he leans against the counter.
“After he took you away, I went to Santo,” Luca replies, his eyes scanning me intently, as though searching for cracks in my armor. “Are you okay?”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I actually had a great day. Is Santo okay?”
Luca’s posture softens slightly. “Yeah, he’s just working.”
