30. Marco
Marco
Flour rises like a dust cloud around my face.
I glare at my white palms and curse. It’s been nearly a week since the boat, and Bianca has been giving me a wide berth.
I don’t blame her. After the revelation about her sister’s meddling in Dante’s life, I’ve been debating how best to handle the Contis.
I knew the entire time that Aldo was up to no good, and the news about Livia only confirms that suspicion.
At first, I didn’t question Bianca because I knew she wouldn’t tell me the truth.
Now, I’m afraid of digging because I don’t want to know which side she’ll choose, and I refuse to think about what it means that I even care.
I’m such a damn coward.
How the hell did Livia even find out about Sara?
Has she been watching us the whole time, or did she happen to stumble across them by accident?
Aldo’s probably the one who ordered her to report the information to the Council.
Unless Bianca’s sister is an extremely talented actress, I can’t imagine her being so devious.
She wouldn’t have anything to gain from sharing that intel.
Aldo on the other hand…
As much as I resent the role Livia played, I think I can find it within myself to forgive her. No one stands a chance against the power of the Council. In fact, it was likely also Aldo who commanded his youngest daughter to spy on Dante in the first place, the fucking bastard.
Right, so holding a grudge against Livia is out of the question.
I wish it were as easy to figure out what to do about Bianca as it is her sister.
Some fundamental, foundational element has shifted between us. Part of me is relieved that Bianca has avoided me the last week because it gives me the chance to try and clear my head.
Which is why I’m in my kitchen at two in the morning baking Zeppole di San Giuseppe, cream puffs with lemon pastry filling. Cream puffs are normally my specialty, but my mind is elsewhere, and I keep messing up the dough.
After Bianca killed the tongueless man, Leandro got back to us quickly.
Because we failed to follow his instructions about not asking questions, he declined our petition for access to the Library, but since we killed the man, he was willing to secure a face-to-face with Zanni, which Bianca assured me was fine.
She made her requests purposefully redundant so that if one avenue failed, we’d have a second waiting to go just in case.
Leandro confided that the Councilor is slated to appear at an event in a few days, so long as we time it right, Bianca and I will be able to run into him.
Sweeping up the spilled flour, I dump it into the trash and return to the kitchen island to start again.
I updated the space with restaurant-quality appliances after Papà passed, but I refused a full renovation.
Too many traces of Dulce linger in these walls to justify tearing them apart.
The old Tuscan design, with its deep earth tones and heavy stones, belongs entirely to her.
Standing in this space in the middle of the night, it feels as if she might walk through the door at any moment.
As I measure out another bowl of flour, my mind goes back to Bianca and the ease with which she killed the man on the boat. Cold, methodical, and without hesitation or regret. It’s not how I operate, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed by the efficiency.
Which leads me to an unwelcome thought…
What if she’s here to kill me too?
The next assassin Aldo points my way might already be inside the house, in my bed, lying in my arms. Not a bad way to go, all things considered.
Somehow, though, I can’t reconcile the woman who rushed to the gym to save me the night the assassin came calling with someone who would one day pull the trigger herself.
Then again, no one is threatening her with Livia to get the job done either.
“What are you doing up?” Bianca startles me from her position in the doorway, and I drop one of the eggs I was juggling. The shell breaks on the countertop, and I quickly scoop up the yolk to transfer it to the mixing bowl.
“You think anyone will take you seriously while you’re playing around with cake and donuts?
” Gio’s sneer of disgust cuts so deep that my eight-year-old heart bleeds beneath my rib cage.
I open my mouth to explain that I miss her less when I’m doing this, but the crack of his palm across the side of my head rebounds through the kitchen.
He grabs me and hauls me back to my feet before the room can stop spinning.
“I told your mother not to coddle you.” His eyes are bright with either tears for her or hatred for me.
I can’t tell the difference anymore. “This world slaughters soft hearts, and I won’t lose you like I did her.
Mrs. Vianello!” He rises to his full height, his hand still tight around my thin arm.
“If I catch him with so much as a spatula again, you’re fired. ”
“Uh, couldn’t sleep.” My voice comes out rough and thick as I clear my throat, blinking until my vision clears. Hands flexing on the edge of the counter, I bow my head. If I had some booze, I could drown out the hateful memory of my father, but I’ve been bone-dry for days.
Funny. I’m grown now, and Gio’s dead, but I still can’t shake that queasy sensation of being caught baking. No one else has ever made me feel so weak and so small, and a part of me found relief in his death.
Not even the whiskey is strong enough to erase that particular guilt. Just further proof that I’m not the heir my father ever wanted. Hell, I’m not even the son he wanted.
Bianca hums. “What are you making?” I’ve been so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize how close she had come. She’s hovering near my shoulder, investigating the ingredients neatly lined up across the length of the island.
“Nothing.” I edge around her to the refrigerator, trying to keep my hands busy and hoping I don’t come off as too guilty. “I just came down for a snack. One of the cooks must have left all of this shit out.”
When I turn back with a carton of milk in hand, Bianca’s leaning her hips against the island and observing me with her arms crossed. Her white silk shorts and matching camisole do nothing to hide the slope of her breasts or the curve of her waist.
Fuck. I want to taste her. How long has it been? I swear that eons have passed since her skin slid against mine. Maybe that’s why I’m losing my mind.
I wouldn’t have time to dwell on my childhood trauma if I were balls deep in her pussy, a recovery plan that my therapist never once recommended but definitely should have.
“You’re so full of shit, Argento.”
Is that…affection?
I meet her amused gaze and stop short. Bianca sees through me in a way that no one else can, not even Dante. “Look, it’s none of my business either way. I’m just here to make a smoothie, then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Bianca lowers her arms, and my focus drops to the hardened peaks of her nipples poking the silk of her camisole. She strolls over to steal the milk from my hand, and the scent of plum blossoms hits me like a Mack truck.
My dick swells behind the zipper of my pants, and I hold the carton up out of her reach. “You know what you really need?” Her lips part, and her eyes dilate. I grin, pleased that I’m not the only one affected. “Dessert.”
Bianca rolls her eyes, but there’s no denying the lingering interest within them. “Do you ever think about anything else other than—”
I tsk, shaking my head in disappointment. “I meant actual dessert, Bianca. Get your mind out of the gutter.” When her shoulders go back and that chin comes up, I soften. Clearing my throat, I test the waters. “Like I mentioned before, I’m actually pretty good at baking.”
The admission causes my heart to hammer against my ribs. A sudden, irrational panic flares.
Shit, what if she reacts the same way that he did now that we’re alone?
My stomach knots. To bury the dread, I crowd her space, catching her jaw with one hand to bring her lips a breath away from mine. I waggle my eyebrows, intentionally playing the clown. “Want me to teach you how I make pastries? I’ll show you how I stuff them full of cream.”
Bianca loses it. She cackles, doubling over as the tension in the room shatters. I release her jaw and stare. My dignity is gone, but so is the emotional threat.
My wife bats at nothing as she tries to control herself. “I’m sorry. You just reminded me of those Instagram chefs. I swear, if you start fingering fruit, I’m going to divorce you.”
Chuckling, I scrub my palm down my face and try again. Bianca isn’t Giovanni. Seeing me in the kitchen won’t scare her off. “I promise I won’t finger any…fruit.”
Her fingers curl around my wrist, and she lowers my hand. “Okay, okay.” She glances back at the island with unmistakable curiosity. “Will you tell me what you’re making now?”
I lead her over to the counter. “Lemon cream puffs.”
Bianca’s brows rise. “I thought you’d say something basic, like boxed muffins.”
I clutch my hand dramatically to my chest. “Blasphemy! Boxed muffins? In this house? Please, Bianca, I do have some sense of self-preservation. Zeppole di San Giuseppe is an art form. If you don’t get the paté à choux right, the dough falls apart and—”
Her half-scoff, half-chuckle interrupts my impassioned speech, prompting me to cross my arms defensively over my chest. “What?”
She hums, trailing her finger through some flour on the countertop. “Just shocked that you’re passionate enough to enunciate in proper French.”
Wrinkling my nose, I smear the white powder along her cheek, and she playfully slaps my hand away.
Mamma’s recipe book is balanced against a container of sugar and open to the confection I’m working on, her scratched notes on the margins fading with time.
Bianca wanders over to the book and examines the directions with a critical eye.
“I’m not sure why you’re making a big deal about this. It looks simple enough.”
With a short bark of laughter, I back up and wave my arm in invitation. “Then by all means.”
I perch on the edge of the counter while she assumes my former position at the island.
She peruses the book for another moment and starts pulling ingredients toward the mixing bowl with easy confidence.
I can tell the exact moment she takes a wrong turn.
“Too much oil. Add a bit more flour so it doesn’t get soggy. ”
Bianca nods and does as instructed. When she cracks the eggs, she drops some of the shell inside as well. I grab a fork from the drawer next to her hip and help drag the loose pieces free.
Her cheeks are flushed, but I place my hand at the small of her back, encouraging her. We spend the next half hour working together as I gently guide her through each step. The process takes twice as long as usual, but with her at my side, rushing is the last thing on my mind.
“So, your mom taught you how to do this?” Bianca asks as I knead the dough for another batch of cream puffs. The first set is already in the oven.
“She did.” Reflex seizes the reins, and my motions are smooth as I finally fall into the rhythm. “She was better at cooking than gardening, though she tried her hand at both when I was growing up.” I chuckle. “It’s something I can do better than Dante, and I used to be such a little shit about it.”
Bianca studies me, her brows drawn. “Sounds like you spent a lot of time with her.”
A gentle warmth suffuses me, and I nod. “She was my favorite person.”
“You’re lucky.” She smiles, but her lip trembles with the effort.
“My mom and I weren’t close. Maybe it would have been different if the two of us could bond over anything besides fear.
After she left, there was just my father, and he…
” Her throat spasms, and her hands go still.
“It just would have been nice to have a childhood like yours.”
Anger stirs inside me with a vengeance. Fucking Aldo Conti. A man so miserable and violent that his wife would rather abandon her children and disgrace her family name than stay with him.
I don’t know when I became this protective of Bianca. I can’t imagine the painfully earnest person next to me as the ruthless killer I saw on the deck of the Joker’s Council. To distract her, I rub some excess dough off the counter, roll it into a ball, and flick it at her.
It bounces off her forehead, and with a growl, Bianca grabs a handful of flour from the bag and douses me. I return the favor, and she yelps, hitting my chest with a flustered giggle. When she reaches for the bag again, I gather her up around the waist, tugging her close.
She searches my eyes from just a few inches away. Whatever she glimpses must ease her reticence, because she yanks me down for a kiss that shakes me to my very core. That’s when I realize.
With Bianca, I’m in danger.
Always have been.
Just not in any way I ever could have dreamed of.