Page 124 of Beauty and the Daddy
The apron tied crooked around his waist does not help his image.
Don of the Moretti empire, currently losing a war to chicken cutlets.
"Everything okay over there, Gordon Ramsay?" I call from my throne at the breakfast bar.
He cuts me a glare sharp enough to kill, then goes back to poking at the charred mess. "I've got it under control."
"Uh-huh. That's what the Titanic's captain said right before the iceberg."
"I swear I'm not appreciated enough around here." He looks at me like I've told him Santa isn't real.
I go quiet here, all out of jokes.
My chest aches with this ridiculous tenderness because he's doing this for me, not because he has to, but because he wants to.
He's been in the kitchen for hours, burning one dish after another… all for me.
It's kind of sweet.
Way, way sweet.
It makes my throat tight, stupidly, because no one's ever tried this hard for me. Not like this.
I rest my chin on my hand and watch this man frown over this perfect meal he's trying to create, then pull back up when my shoulder starts hurting.
It's been three days since he moved me out of the compound and into this villa by the lake.
Luca thought the quiet, the air, the distance would help me heal. He wasn't wrong.
The place is unreal—pine trees crowding the shore, glassy water catching every streak of sunset, silence so deep you can hear yourself breathe.
And him. Always him. Pacing, checking, guarding.
I should be annoyed at how much he hovers, but truth is…I've never felt safer in my life.
Now he's making me dinner. Or trying.
God, please don't let me end up with food poisoning.
Sofia's lucky she ate her dinner early, which was what the maid made, and went to bed in the other room.
"You know," I say, watching smoke curl up from the skillet, "if this was your way of finishing me off, a simple pillow over the face would've been quicker."
"Keep talking," he mutters, flipping the meat with the confidence of a man who has no idea what he's doing.
I grin. God, it feels good to grin after everything. "I'm just saying—your skillset might not transfer to the kitchen. Stick to strangling men with your bare hands."
His jaw tightens, but there's a glint in his eye when he glances at me. "You're worth it."
Those words sink deeper than I want to admit, tugging at something tender and raw inside me.
He means it. God, he really means it.
When he finally serves up what he calls dinner, we both take a bite like we're defusing a bomb.
One chew, two chews—then we lock eyes and spit it out at the same time.
"Oh my God." I'm coughing, grabbing my water. "That's vile. What did you do to it?"
