Page 48 of Savage Ambition

Mrs. Ferretti looked up from her tablet in the living room doorway. “Welcome home, Dante.”

I gave her a formal nod. She was Salvatore’s primary snitch, a woman best handled with silence.

She closed the protective case on her tablet. “I’ll be in the study finishing the scheduling your father requested. The groceries you asked for were delivered this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” I replied It was a quiet reminder that nothing happened in the apartment without being reported. I waited until she disappeared down the hallway before turning back to Raphael.

“You must be exhausted,” Raphael said. “I can order something if you’re hungry.”

“Actually,” I said, moving toward the kitchen that anchored one end of the vast open floor plan, “I thought we might cook together. It’s been too long.”

His face lit up. “Really? What are we making?”

“How does agnolotti with butternut squash and sherry cream sauce sound?”

“Amazing!” Raphael almost bounced with excitement.

The sprawling kitchen gleamed with wealth and precision. Italian marble countertops reflected the recessed lighting. The range with its multiple burners and built-in grill stood like an altar to culinary excess. Every appliance was top-of-the-line, hidden behind custom cabinetry when not in use. Salvatore designed the space to impress his unsavory associates.

Cameras monitored our movements from discreet corners of the ceiling. Salvatore was always watching.

“I’ve never made agnolotti before,” Raphael admitted, helping me gather ingredients as I listed them off.

“Then it’s about time you learned.” I arranged the items on the island. “Cooking philosophy says the most difficult preparations yield the most satisfying results.”

It was safer to phrase it as a generalized belief rather than a lesson taught by our mother. Salvatore tolerated vague references to traditions but punished direct mentions of our birth parents.

“Is that why you often choose complicated recipes?” Raphael asked, washing his hands at the sink.

“Partly.” I measured flour onto the marble surface. “Also because good food is worth the effort.”

We worked side by side as I guided him through creating a well in the flour and cracking eggs into the center.

I incorporated the flour into the eggs. “How’s school?”

“I got an A on my last algebra test,” Raphael said with pride. “Mr. Wexley said I have a natural aptitude for math.”

“Of course you do. You’ve always been good with numbers.”

“That’s because they make sense when nothing else does.”

The sentiment resonated with me better than he understood. Unlike words, which had the power to lie, numbers were reliable. Fifteen years since Raphael’s birth. Nine years since we lost everything. Six years since I started working at the brothel. One goal to keep Raphael safe.

“What about your other classes?” I asked.

“English is fine, I guess. We’re reading another bad novel written by some famous guy I don’t relate to at all. History’s boring. I hate memorizing dates of battles nobody cares about anymore.”

I smiled at his teenage assessment. “And what about that debate team you joined?”

“We won against Langford Academy last week. I delivered the closing argument. Coach Fitzgerald said I have a future in law if I want it.”

“That’s fantastic.” The pride in my voice was genuine. The glimpses of Raphael’s normal high school life sustained me through my darkest nights at the brothel.

“What about that boy you mentioned? The one from debate?”

Raphael’s cheeks flushed. “Matteo? Um, he asked if I wanted to see a movie together next weekend.”

“And what did you tell him?”