Chapter 8 - THE KITCHEN TABLE
I stared at him.
The dining room was a war zone. There were police sirens wailing in the distance, heading for the front gates to deal with the burning cars.
And the most powerful man in Chicago was asking for breakfast food.
I let out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh.
“Yes, sir,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I can make eggs.”
“Good.”
He looked at the remaining guests huddled against the walls.
“The dinner is over,” Luca announced to the room. “My men will escort you to the side exit. You will speak to no one about what happened here tonight. If the press asks, an electrical fire occurred in the driveway. Understood?”
The wealthy elite of Chicago nodded aggressively in unison. Nobody wanted to cross Luca Moretti after watching him dismantle a rival mafia boss in five minutes.
Luca didn’t wait for them to leave.
He reached down and picked up Leo.
The boy wrapped his legs around Luca’s waist and buried his face in his uncle’s shoulder.
“Come on, Emma,” Luca said, walking toward the service doors. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”
I followed him out of the ruined dining room, leaving the chaos behind.
The industrial kitchen was empty. The catering staff had fled the moment the explosion happened outside.
Luca set Leo down on one of the tall metal stools at the prep island.
He took off his ruined suit jacket and tossed it onto a counter. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the dark ink of his family crest tattooed on his forearm.
He looked incredibly tired.
“Scrambled, Leo?” Luca asked softly.
Leo nodded, rubbing his eyes. “With cheese?”
“Always with cheese,” Luca smiled.
He looked at me.
“Where do we keep the pans?” he asked.
I blinked. “Sir, I can cook them. You sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down,” Luca said quietly. “I want to do something normal for five minutes. Just point me to the pans, Emma.”
I walked over to the hanging rack and pulled down a non-stick skillet. I handed it to him.
For the next ten minutes, the terrifying mafia boss of Chicago stood at the stove, gently scrambling eggs for his nephew.
I stood beside him, cutting up some strawberries I found in the fridge.
It was surreal.
“Thank you,” Luca said softly, not looking away from the stove.
“For what?”
“For protecting him. For hiding him when she tried to send him away.”
“I couldn’t let her do that to him,” I said honestly. “He’s just a little boy.”
Luca turned the stove off and plated the eggs.
He set the plate in front of Leo, who immediately started eating like he hadn’t eaten all day.
Luca leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, watching me.
“You defied my fiancée. You lied to me. You hid my nephew in the staff quarters,” he listed off.
My heart sank. Was he going to fire me now?
“I know, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said firmly.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled drawing Leo had made. The one Uncle Michael had found on the floor.
He smoothed it out on the stainless steel counter.
It showed the house. It showed Luca. And it showed Leo.
But there was a fourth figure in the drawing. A woman with brown hair, wearing a maid’s apron.
Emma.
“He didn’t draw Vanessa,” Luca said quietly. “He drew you.”
I looked down at the drawing. My throat felt tight.
“He’s a sweet boy,” I managed to say.
Luca stepped closer to me. The kitchen suddenly felt very small.
“He needs a mother, Emma.”
I froze.
“Mr. Moretti—”
“Luca. My name is Luca.”
He reached out and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my jawline.
“I spent three years trying to force a corporate merger disguised as a marriage, because I thought it was the safe thing to do for the family,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I thought I needed a society wife. I was wrong.”
He looked at Leo, then back at me.
“The only thing that matters is loyalty. The only thing that matters is who protects you when the house is on fire.”
He stepped closer.
“You protected my blood tonight, Emma. You protected my aunt. You protected my son.”
I couldn’t breathe. He was standing so close I could smell the gunpowder and expensive cologne on his skin.
“What are you saying, Luca?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer with words.
He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the velvet box Mr. Caruso had brought.
The box that held his mother’s watch.
May you like
He opened it and took out the beautiful, tarnished silver timepiece.
He reached for my hand.
