Page 372 of Rosetti Family New York
Matteo Rosetti's hands don't shake. Not during negotiations, not during violence, not ever. But here I am, twenty-nine years old and trembling like a boy because I touched a sleeping woman's hair.
This is what caring does to you. This is why Dad taught me to cut it out before it spreads.
But walking back to my empty room, I can't shake the image of her face when she settled at my touch. Can't forget the way she whispered my name in her sleep, soft and trusting.
Like maybe she's not as afraid of me as she should be.
The scent of espresso pulls me from restless sleep four hours later. Not enough rest, but it'll have to be. Today Dom expects updates on the Chase situation, and I can't afford to look like a man distracted by his captive.
Even if that's exactly what I've become.
The kitchen is my domain in this place. Cast-iron pans hanging from hooks, granite counters, everything positioned for maximum efficiency. I learned to cook the same way I learned everything else: because it might save my life someday. A man who can't feed himself is a man who can be controlled.
This morning I need the distraction. Need the precise movements and familiar rituals to quiet the voice in my head that keeps replaying Isabella's soft sighs from four hours ago.
Eggs with shaved truffle because she deserves something beautiful. Fresh espresso because she needs the caffeine after the nightmare. Toast with wild cherry jam because it seems like something she'd choose. Something elegant and refined, like everything else about her.
The domestic nature of it should feel foreign. I've never cooked for a woman before, never wanted to. But this isn't about romance or feelings. This is about keeping my asset comfortable until I get what I need from her.
What I need being her complete surrender, preferably naked and begging.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I arrange everything perfectly on the tray. As I make sure the coffee is exactly the right temperature. As I catch myself humming under my breath like some domestic fool.
I'm plating the eggs when she appears in the doorway. Hair sleep-mussed, feet bare, wearing my clothes like they were made for her. She blinks at the smell of coffee, still soft from dreams, and every protective instinct I've spent years burying roars to life.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice level. "I made breakfast."
She approaches cautiously, those green eyes taking in every detail. The perfectly arranged plate, the coffee mug alreadysteaming beside it, the way I've positioned myself between her and the exit. Always calculating, always alert. It's one of the things I respect about her.
"What is this?" she asks, settling into the chair across from me. "Hostage Room Service?"
Despite everything, I almost smile. "I cook better than my enemies. It's a skillset."
She takes a bite of the eggs, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. The sight does things to my pulse that I catalog as pure physical response. Like watching her in the shower through the monitors. Like imagining what sounds she'll make when I finally get her underneath me.
"This is incredible," she admits, and there's honest surprise in her voice. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Survival." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "In my family, depending on others gets you killed."
She studies my face, searching for something I don't want her to find. "That sounds lonely."
The observation cuts deeper than it should. Lonely isn't a word that belongs in my vocabulary. I don't get lonely. I get focused. I get results.
I don't sit in empty kitchens at dawn wishing someone would share my coffee.
But I did that this morning, didn't I? Stood at this counter imagining her walking in, sleep-soft and wearing my clothes, making everything feel less like a tomb.
"Loneliness is a luxury," I tell her, which is what my father would say. What Dom would say. What any smart Rosetti would say. "Weak men get lonely. Smart men get even."
But watching her eat food I prepared with my own hands, seeing her soften in the morning light, I can't shake the feeling that this quiet moment is more dangerous than any negotiation I've ever walked into.
Not because I'm falling for her. That would be stupid, and I'm not a stupid man.
Because she's making me want things I've never wanted before. And wanting makes you sloppy.
We eat in relative silence, the tension from last night settling between us like fine wine. She cuts her eggs with precise movements, every gesture controlled and elegant. Even eating breakfast, she looks like she belongs in a museum, not a criminal's safehouse.
"What happened last night," she says finally, not looking up from her plate, "that wasn't business."
