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“I will,” I tell him. “Once Dr. Morgan’s done with her evaluations.”
“Why are you… oh, I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“I was going to ask why you’re being so considerate, but I get it,” my son says, wearing a shit-eating grin I’m not sure I appreciate.
“Get what?” I ask again, more exasperated this time.
“You love her,” he simply states. “That’s why you’ve turned your life upside down for her, and why you’re doing all of this without her knowing. You want to protect her for as long as you can.”
“Fuck off,” I snarl.
“Does she know about—”
“No,” I interrupt. “No one but you, me, and Gio know about her.”
Paolo grins as he gathers his things and strides toward the door. “Guess I should re-meet Kira, since it sounds like she’s going to stick around.”
“Focus on your job for now,” I sigh. “And once you’re done with the Albanians, see what you can find about anything connecting Harry to NovaGen Pharmaceuticals beyond the signed authorization forms.”
“Anything for my stepmom,” he chuckles.
Even though he closes the door behind him, I can still hear the echo of his laughter long after he’s gone.
As soon as I’m done at the warehouse, I drive back to the penthouse. Even though I know I should meet with Gio about next month’s sit down with the Irish Mafia, I can’t find it in me to care right now. Not when I know Kira returned earlier than usual from Saint Benedict’s.
I don’t see her when I return, so I head to my office. I barely get my ass into the chair when a soft knock sounds against the closed door. The door opens before I answer, and Kira steps into my office.
“You busy?” She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled into a loose knot at the base of her neck. No makeup. The freckles across her nose are visible in the afternoon light from the windows.
“Depends on what you’re selling.” I lean back in my chair. “If it’s another lecture about my communication skills, I’m booked solid until Christmas.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t bite. “Saint Benedict’s is having a potluck for the fall festival this weekend, and I wanted to cook something.”
“Tell the chef what you want. He’ll make it.”
“That’s not…” She stops and takes a breath. “I don’t want the chef to make it when it’s for so many people.”
The solution seems obvious. “That’s fine, we’ll have it catered. Whatever you want, however much you need. Just give Donna the headcount.”
Her shoulders drop. Something flickers across her face—frustration, disappointment. I’ve seen that look before.
“It’s not about the food, Domenico.” Her voice is careful. Measured. The way she talks when she’s trying not to sound like she’s accusing me of something. “It’s about contributing. Everyone else is bringing something they made. Something they chose and cooked with their own hands. I don’t want to show up with a catered platter and pretend I had anything to do with it.”
She brushes some imaginary lint from her shoulder.
“The potluck is the day before Dr. Morgan’s supposed to have answers about Mom, so I also figured it would help keep me busy.”
And now I get it: she wants to personally contribute.
I catch the next offer before it leaves my mouth. The kitchen is fully staffed, and the chef could easily supervise. But every solution I have involves someone else doing the work, and none of them are what she’s asking for.
“The kitchen is yours, baby,” I reply. “Whatever you need. Use it.”
The change in her is immediate. Her face lights up—not the careful, practiced smile she gives when she’s grateful, but something brighter. Real. She takes a step toward my desk, then stops herself, as if she’s not sure what to do with the permission now that she has it.
I solve that problem for her by reaching across the desk and catching her wrist so I can pull her around to stand between my knees. Her hips bump against the edge of the chair, and I slide my hand to the small of her back, holding her there.
