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Feeling the need for some liquid courage, I chugged half my drink down before setting the glass back onto the table and sniffing appreciatively at the steamy garlic scent of the carbonara.
“Let’s eat,” he said.
I stuck my fork into my bowl and twirled my pasta around then lifted the mound of it up and into my mouth. The explosion of flavor made me moan and close my eyes. When I opened them next, Valentino watched me with glittering eyes and a half-smile that softened his face ever so slightly.
I swallowed and asked, “What?”
He leaned forward and dabbed at one corner of my lips with a napkin. “You have a little something here.”
“Oh.” My face burned. “I always make a mess when I eat pasta dishes.”
He chuckled. “So I noticed.” He leaned back, then lifted his forkful and sucked the tines clean before he chewed, not a speck on his clothes or his beard. He winked. “I grew up on pasta.”
“Did you?” I asked, twirling my fork once again and making the mound a little smaller and manageable before I stuck it in my mouth.
He nodded. “Mom was a typical Italian who loved to cook and eat. She had to learn restraint though as we never had a lot of money to waste on fancy things.” He took a sip of his drink. “Not until I was old enough to earn decent money.”
“I’m sure she’s very proud of how you’re earning money now,” I said drily.
“Actually, she was,” he countered.
Was? As in she was no longer around? I cleared my throat. “Is she—“
“She’s dead,” he interjected roughly. “Life wasn’t kind to her thanks to living with domestic violence, but I’d like to think she was at peace for the last five years of her life before cancer took her.”
So Valentino had been a product of domestic violence. Little wonder he’d grown up doing what he did. Not that it was an excuse, but it certainly made me see things a little clearer.
“How old were you when she died?”
“I was twenty-three. She died fifteen years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. What else could I say? No one deserved to lose their mother, especially at such a young age.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly.
I chewed my bottom lip. “It’s given me a little insight into your life.”
“Of why I do what I do?”
I nodded. “Yes. Though I’m sure there is a lot more to your story.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? My aggressive reputation preceded me. The Agostino don at that time—Ethan’s father—approached me to become his next enforcer.”
“His last enforcer died?”
“Yes. I killed him.”
I blinked. “I can’t believe the don allowed you to live. Their men become their family.”
“Lorenzo wasn’t known for his…affections. He was about as cold and heartless as anyone could get. In my eyes he was edging toward insanity. It was nothing short of a relief when Ethan shot him.”
I blinked at him, trying to read his face and failing. “Really?” I squeaked. “You wanted Lorenzo dead?”
“In the end I think everyone did, except possibly Carlo.” He twirled his pasta again. “Either way, Ethan chose Sabrina. He did the right thing. What his father asked him to do was…sick, even as a don.”
“I had been told Lorenzo asked Ethan to kill his wife…the woman he loved.” Sabrina had been in a similar situation to me, waiting for the death bells to toll. “At least Ethan loved her enough to spare her,” I said faintly.
“Yes, he did.”
