Page 162 of Lorenzo

My mother taught me.

She used to stand me on a chair beside the stove because I was too small to reach the counter. She would guide my hand while I stirred sauce and tell me that rushing ruined everything worth making.

The memory comes without warning.

I shut it down before it can open into anything else.

That was a long time ago. Before everything went to hell.

I have no interest in spending the morning there.

Lorenzo cracks eggs into the bowl and begins whisking them.

Last night, I told him about the Bureau. Julian. The case that should have launched my career and nearly ended it instead.

I gave him more than I intended.

This morning, I want the balance restored.

“Tell me about their mother.”

His hand stills, only for a second.

Then he resumes whisking.

I nearly wince at how blunt that was, but before I can try to correct my blunder, he asks, “Edoardo and Alessio’s mother?”

“Yes.”

He pours the eggs into the skillet.

“Gemma,” he says.

I wait.

He folds the eggs through the vegetables, his attention on the pan.

“She died twenty-three years ago.”

I calculate in my mind. That would’ve made Edoardo about four and Alessio about one.

I look at him. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

His face is composed, but the ease from a few minutes ago is gone.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.” I know that better than anyone. “I shouldn't have asked. Please forget I did.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“It was leukemia,” he says quietly.

Mocha settles near his feet, sensing the shift.

“Can you put bread in the toaster, please?”

For a moment, I’m confused by the words, then I nod. He shifts to the side and begins cutting some fruit I didn’t realize I had.