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The puttanesca is bubbling on the stove when Laila walks in.
She freezes when she sees me at the counter and tries to reverse right back out of the room, but it wouldn’t be a very good trap if I let her escape so easily.
“Laila.”
She sighs and steps back in. Nina tosses a wooden spoon from where she’s perched in her high chair, squealing in delight at the sight of her mother.
Laila busies herself picking it up for Nina, who promptly flings it to the ground again. “Where’s Evelyn?”
“I sent her home early today. Polina, too. I thought they could both use some downtime.”
Her eyes fly around the kitchen like I just told her we’re surrounded by armed snipers. “So no one else is here?”
“Aside from the security team? No.” I pretend not to notice the panicked flush of her cheeks. “I’m sorry for not bringing Nina up to you earlier. I was busy cooking. I lost track of time.”
“It’s alright.” She peeks suspiciously into the pot on the stove. “It smells amazing.”
It’s no coincidence that I chose one of her favorite dishes. I send my silent thanks up to Marie for dropping that little nugget of information during one of our many chats.
“Care to join me for dinner?”
She stiffens. “I should get Nina ready for bed.”
“Actually, she’s probably not gonna go down for another hour, at least. She woke up late from her afternoon nap.”
Screwing with an infant’s sleep schedule just to buy myself an hour with her mother is low, but Dom said to play dirty. This is me playing dirty.
I pull the pot of pasta off the stove and place it on a hot pad on the counter. “I made more than enough.”
“I had a late lunch. I’m not hungry.”
“It might be nice. For Nina.” Laila looks cagey, and I can feel the opportunity slipping through my fingers. “You don’t want her to have parents who can’t share a meal together, do you?”
Laila’s eyes narrow. “Are you using our daughter to manipulate me?”
“That depends.” I shrug. “Is it working?”
Her mouth pinches at the corner to fight the smile that wants to spread there. “I guess it won’t kill me to eat a little pasta.”
But I don’t give her “a little pasta”—I dish out a heaping bowl full of the stuff. It’s simple math: the more she has to eat, the longer I get to spend with her.
But the second she swirls the pasta on her fork and takes a bite, I realize what I’ve signed up for.
Her eyes flutter closed and her lips purse. She moans, soft and deep in the back of her throat as she savors the bite. “Mmm… this is amazing.”
Suddenly, I’m hungry for a lot more than pasta.
I clear my throat. “Did I do her recipe justice?”
“Wait. Is this—” She looks down at her plate, lips parted in shock. “Is this my mom’s recipe?”
I nod. “Hard-won after many promises that I wouldn’t share it with anyone else. Marie made sure I knew that I was breaking a long tradition of this recipe only being passed to the women in her family.”
Laila studies me like a puzzle she can’t figure out. “I can’t believe she gave it to you.”
Her hand trembles, and I think this gesture could be backfiring. It makes sense. Marie’s funeral is still fresh. Maybe I should have started with a less nostalgic recipe—some random aunt’s sloppy joes—and worked my way up to childhood staples that remind her of her recently dead mother.
“I hope you don’t mind. I probably should have run it by you first.”
