Page 49 of Savage Ambition

“That I needed to ask Father first.” His voice dropped. “I haven’t yet. It probably isn’t worth asking when he’ll say no.”

I kept my expression neutral while my hands worked the dough. “I’ll speak with Father about it. Going to a movie sounds reasonable.”

What Raphael didn’t know was that I would ensure he went out with Matteo by whatever means necessary. Salvatore enjoyed making me beg for those small freedoms, extracting payment in ways that left marks visible only to me. But I’d gladly pay any price for him to enjoy a date with his first crush.

“You think he’ll say yes?” Hope colored Raphael’s voice.

“I can be very persuasive.” The double meaning flew over his head.

I wrapped the dough in plastic to rest. “Now, let’s prepare the filling.”

I showed him how to peel and cube the butternut squash, tossing it with olive oil, salt, and pepper before roasting. While it cooked, we prepared the ricotta mixture with Parmesan, nutmeg, and a touch of honey.

“Not too much nutmeg,” I cautioned as he sprinkled the spice. “It should complement, not overwhelm.”

“Like cologne,” he said with a grin.

I laughed, even as the reminder invoked memories of Renato’s unique one that made my body burn with wildfire lust. “Exactly. Where did you learn that?”

“From you, when you helped me get ready for the winter formal. Will the roasting take a while?”

I checked the squash’s progress in the oven. “Patience creates perfection. You can’t rush good food.”

Raphael leaned against the counter to watch me. “Is that why you’re always so patient with me? Even when I mess up?”

I nodded. “Some things are worth taking time with.”

When the squash was roasted, we combined it with the ricotta mixture, blending until smooth. I divided the rested dough, showing Raphael how to roll it through the pasta machine until it reached the perfect thinness.

“Now for the tricky part,” I said, demonstrating how to place small dollops of filling at regular intervals before folding and sealing the pasta into half-moon shapes, then cutting them with a fluted pasta roller.

Raphael’s first attempts were clumsy, the filling squeezing out from uneven pressure.

I demonstrated again. “Press firmly enough to seal, but not so hard you tear the dough.”

“I’m terrible at this,” he complained as more filling leaked out.

“You’re learning,” I corrected. “No one masters anything on their first try.”

His next attempt was better as the edges sealed more evenly.

“There you go,” I encouraged. “Cooking teaches patience and resilience when things go wrong.”

“Like life,” Raphael observed, placing his completed pasta on a floured tray.

“Exactly.”

We worked in comfortable silence for a while. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered in the darkness, concealing the menacing shadows I lurked in as part of the Gennaro Mafia.

“Dante?” Raphael’s voice was hesitant.

“Hmm?”

“Is it weird I wish I could remember more from when I was younger?” He kept his eyes fixed on his work. “Everything feels so fuzzy when I try to think about the past.”

Raphael had been only six when Salvatore murdered our parents and took control of our lives. His recollection of our real family was fragmentary at best, while mine remained vivid and painful.

“You were very young,” I said carefully, aware of the cameras but unwilling to deny him the connection to our past. “It’s natural that your memories would be limited.”