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He puts his meaty paw on her hand and lifts it to his lips.

I bite my cheek, tasting blood, and grab the wine glass next to me. I imagine snapping the stem in half and stabbing the man with it. ThenI’llteach Olivia how to cook while he bleeds out on the floor.

The bastard is touching what’s mine.

Mine.

No, she’s not yours, you imbecile. You can’t give her forever until—no,if—you can even figure your shit out. That’s what she wants, remember?

She wants the white picket fence, the doting husband.

She doesn’t want someone mentally ill, riddled with guilt, and definitely unstable.

She doesn’t want someone who relies on caffeine pills to function.

I toss back the wine, barely tasting it. It could be cat piss for all I care.

But then, a thought occurs to me.

What if we delay the decision? What if we give ourselves this trip—this paradise on earth? We’ll take all the precautions—meet in private areas out of sight from other passengers so her reputation remains intact. I’ll keep a low profile with her. We can be with each other even ifit’s only for the rest of the cruise. Then once we’re back in New York, if I could figure things out, maybe things would be different.

The idea takes root and a low current sizzles through me.

I watch as the bastard Valenti moves to Lana, who practically prances in front of him, excitement vibrating from her. She grins shyly and extends her hand, and just as he reaches for it, someone clears his throat again.

Our attention snags on the shadow lurking by the kitchen entrance. Elias knocks his lighter against the wall, his gaze cold and face impassive.

He cocks one eyebrow.

I shiver—the damn man can menace without trying.

Valenti stiffens, his hand dropping to his side.

He murmurs to Lana, “Thank you for your invitation, Ms. Anderson. I’m honored to teach a group of distinguished people today.”

Then he returns to the center of the room.

Lana frowns and mouths,“What the hell?”

I look at the entrance, but there’s no one there, the mobster vanishing like an apparition.

“Today, we’re learning the art of handcrafted pasta. You’ll roll and cuttagliatelleby hand, then we will create the perfectRagù Toscano,” Valenti explains. He strains a grin.

Ragù Toscano.Mom’s favorite. I smile, thinking about the wonderful memories of her and me cooking the same dish a long time ago.

Valenti walks us through the steps, then directs us to the flatscreen hanging on the wall, which also shows the instructions of the simple, yet flavorful pasta dish that’s a cousin to the spaghetti bolognese.

“First, get into groups of two.” The Chef claps his hands and the room scurries into action.

Lana beelines for Bree, who looks like she’d much rather be in her room, tapping away at her laptop than cooking. The other folks pair up one by one—most of them with friends or partners.

And then there’s my Olive, looking like a deer in the headlights, standing frozen on the far side of the large marble island.

“Signora, no partner for the beautiful lady?” Valenti asks, the charming smile back on his face.

The bastard has a fucking dimple. Women love dimples. Maybe that’s where my scar should go. A dimple would beat a dangerous scar on the cheek.

I think about the ridiculous conversation I had with Elias in the hangar before the trip.