Page 28 of The Don’s Omega

“Well, I’m on my feet a long time, and to be honest,” I laugh, “sometimes the customers can get a little grabby.”

Noemi bugs her eyes. “They touch you? Is that allowed?”

I grimace. “Not really. But I work for tips. I have to put up with a lot because I need the customers happy.”

Marcello sounds irritable as he says, “That’s the past. You don’t need their money anymore. Put it behind you. No one will disrespect you that way now. They wouldn’t dare.”

Ginevra snickers. “Marcello will have their hands chopped off if anyone tries to touch you now.”

I wince inwardly at the gruesome image, but she’s wrong about Marcello caring if anyone touches me. She’s obviously unaware Marcello has it in our contract that we don’t have to forsake all others. We can sleep around if we want, so long as we’re discreet.

The conversation pauses when the food starts coming. Ornella brings dish after dish, all of it smelling so good my stomach growls audibly, which makes Noemi giggle. The food is unbelievably delicious. It’s like a feast for a king.

There’s pasta in a deep red sauce thick with crushed tomatoes, garlic, basil. It tastes like something someone’s grandmother would make. There’s roasted chicken too, golden-skinned and fragrant with rosemary, thyme, lemon, and garlic. The meat is so tender it pulls apart under my fork.

The vegetables are arranged on a platter beside it: roasted peppers slick with olive oil, zucchini with charred edges, little potatoes crusted with salt and herbs, and something leafy and dark green sautéed with garlic and red pepper flakes. I don’t know what half of it is, but every bite tastes rich and impossibly delicious.

One of the best parts is the bread. Warm. Crusty. Torn open by hand and soft in the center, with steam rising from it. I drag a piece through the sauce and have to stifle a moan of pleasure. How have I lived without bread like this in my life?

I eat like it’s my last meal. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the food was in front of me. I’ve been running on adrenaline and caffeine for weeks. This is the first hot, actual meal I’ve had in longer than I want to admit.

Marcello’s mother watches me eat, her expression pleased. “It’s so wonderful to see someone enjoying their food. Marcello usually gulps down his dinner like he barely notices, and goes to make phone calls.”

He scowls. “That’s not true. I always spend at least a few hours at the table.”

Ginevra rolls her eyes. “Half the time you take your calls during the meal.”

He winces. “Guilty as charged. Perhaps I can do better. Thank you for the gentle reminder to be present with my family, Ginevra.”

She laughs. “You’re welcome, but I’ll faint if you actually don’t answer your phone at the table.”

As if on cue, his phone buzzes and a muscle works in his cheek as he ignores it. “See, I’m already improving.”

Noemi smiles. “You’ve lasted a whole three minutes, Marcello. That’s a new record.”

He laughs and my stomach clenches at how handsome he looks. He’s already attractive, but when he’s open and warm with his family, Jesus, my heart races just looking at him. It’s obvious they’re his world. For the first time since meeting him, I see he has the capacity to love as deeply as I love Fabio. It’s shocking to see in a man who seems so hardened.

He meets my eyes and the warmth is still there for a moment. “See how they pick on me? They’re very mean when they want to be.”

“You probably deserve it,” I say without thinking.

Instead of getting mad, he laughs. “I don’t see how that could be possible. I’m virtually a saint.”

I can’t help laughing at that. “Okay, now that’s just a flat out lie.”

He grins. “You’re right. Being a saint would be so boring. It’s much more fun to be a devil.”

I smile in spite of myself, holding his gaze.

Mrs. Foschini watches our interaction with a funny little smile.

I go back to eating, and once I’m ready to burst, I push my plate away, patting my stomach. “I can honestly say that was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“Really?” Noemi looks down at her plate. “I thought the sauce was too tart.”

“I thought it was perfect,” I murmur, wiping my mouth with my napkin.

“Do you cook, Elio?” Mrs. Foschini asks.