Chapter 51 Zara #2
“Okay, now what?” I ask, peering over Lars’s shoulder as he adds something green and fragrant to the bubbling pot of sauce
“Basil. Torn, not chopped. You bruise the hell out of it otherwise.” He tosses a glance at me. “Your turn.”
I blink. “My turn to…?”
“Stir,” he says, handing me the wooden spoon. His nails are a deep shade of maroon today. “Clockwise. Gently. This isn’t a blender, Marchetti.”
I stick my tongue out at him but take the spoon anyway, stepping in close and giving it a careful swirl. “You know, for a guy who does very illegal things for a living, you take your sauce very seriously.”
“This is Sunday sauce,” he replies. “There are rules.”
“I love her,” Violette says to no one in particular. “She mocks men with knives. Keep her, Enzo.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Enzo replies smoothly, his voice warm.
I try not to smile, but I do.
“Okay,” Lars says, eyeing the pot like it might insult his ancestors. “Now taste it. Tell me what’s missing.”
I grab a spoon and dip it in the pot, blowing before I taste it. “Salt?”
Lars does the same. After sampling it, his head tilts. “Yes, salt. What else?”
I think for a moment, not being able to pinpoint the missing ingredient. I decide to take another taste. As I lower the spoon to the sauce again, he slaps my wrist—light, but firm. “Nope. Taste with a clean spoon. Jesus. Who raised you?”
“Apparently no one with mafia etiquette,” I mutter, grabbing a tasting spoon from the dish beside the stove.
“It’s acidic. Maybe sugar?”
He smiles with pride. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”
He grabs a canister from the counter and drops a couple spoonfuls into the simmering liquid, stirring. Clockwise, of course. After a few moments, he hands me a spoon and we try it again.
“Oh my God. That’s ridiculous.”
“Right?” Lars smirks. “Better than sex.”
I arch a brow. “That’s a bold statement.”
“Maybe for Lars it is,” Enzo says from behind me, voice dropping a note. “But I’d argue otherwise.”
I glance back at him, already grinning. “Would you like to weigh in, Mr. Marchetti?”
“I’d like a taste.”
I grab another spoon, scoop a bit of the sauce, and hold it out toward him. “Don’t be dramatic.”
He doesn’t break eye contact. He steps forward, takes the spoon into his mouth slowly—obscenely—and groans.
“Oh my God,” Lars mutters, grabbing a towel and snapping it in our direction. “I swear to God, if you two start dry-humping next to my sauce, I’m walking out.”
“You say that like it would stop me,” I tease.
Enzo’s arm slides around my waist, warm and possessive. “We’ll finish this in private later.”
“You’ll finish nothing until the garlic bread’s done,” Lars says, waving a spatula. “Hands off the help.”
Violette tips her martini glass in our direction. “This family. Just warms my fucking heart.”
Standing in a kitchen filled with heat, banter, and the smell of garlic and tomatoes reminds me of my childhood. When my father wasn’t wicked, when my mother’s voice filled our home. My chest aches with mourning over that life.
For a moment, my thoughts drift to Kelly.
A small part of me feels like I should reach out to her.
We haven’t spoken since my brother’s death and I’m sure she’s reeling in the aftermath.
I breathe deep, washing away the thought.
I’m no longer a Kavanagh, and even though we were close at one time, I have left that family and name behind.
Abandoned it for true love and people who love me right back.
I lean back against Enzo’s chest, returning to the moment, watching the little domestic circus swirl around me.
Violette in silk pajamas and diamonds like she’s hosting a red carpet afterparty.
Lars cooking with terrifying intensity. Enzo practically purring behind me like a smug jungle cat. And somehow, I fit.
“You’re smiling,” Enzo’s voice rumbles near my ear.
“Am I?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like it here.”
“I do like it here. I’m wearing borrowed sweats and being taught how to stir pasta sauce by a man who I’ve been told once stabbed someone with a meat fork.”
“Accident,” Lars calls out from the sink.
“Violette said you were aiming for his throat.”
“Still an accident.”
Violette raises her glass again. “In this family, this is domestic bliss.”
Enzo dips his head, brushing his lips along the curve of my neck, and for a second, the chaos fades.
“You belong, Angel,” he says, quiet but sure. “Whether you believe it yet or not.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod, stealing a breadstick just to distract myself.
“I believe it,” I whisper.
Not long ago, my nights ended in silence and take out. Now, I’m plating pasta alongside Lars while my husband watches. It’s not lost on me how fast things have changed.
Lars hands me the serving spoon with exaggerated flourish. “To our resident sous-chef.”
I give him a theatrical curtsy. “All I’m missing is a ridiculous hat.”
Violette lifts her martini glass like she’s toasting royalty. “So long as you’re not wearing one of those god-awful aprons with dick jokes, I approve.”
Enzo watches it all with that rare glint in his eye—amusement mixed with something softer, something only I seem to get from him these days. I can feel the weight of his gaze as I serve Violette first, Lars second, then finally pass the bowl to Enzo.
“You keep cooking like this and Lars is going to get jealous,” he says, lips quirking.
“I’m not worried,” Lars mutters, grabbing the salad tongs. “There’s one ingredient I didn’t divulge. Keeping that part a secret.”
“Love this journey for us,” I deadpan, placing garlic bread onto his plate.
We eat the way people do when they’ve earned it—not just from surviving the week, but from the strange, unexpected rhythm we’ve found together. It shouldn’t work, the four of us around a table, yet somehow the edges fit.
Violette lifts her martini, eyes glinting. “To Sunday sauce, orgasms, and women talented enough to deliver both without breaking a sweat.”
Lars nearly chokes on his whiskey. I’m doubled over laughing before I can even pretend to be shocked. Enzo, naturally, just raises his glass back, smug bastard.
The meal carries on with that perfect balance of bite and ease—teasing, affection, silences feel natural. For once, there’s no strategy hanging over us. Just sauce, bread, and the kind of comfort I want more of.
Eventually, Violette tips her glass toward Lars. “Not terrible. The sauce wasn’t complete garbage. You’ve earned another week of usefulness.”
“Heartwarming,” Lars deadpans. “You should take up freelance writing for greeting cards.”
I glance at Enzo, who’s methodically buttering a piece of bread with all the gravity of a man plotting a murder. “Why are you glaring at your bread?”
His gaze flicks up, completely straight-faced. “Because I’m bracing myself for when Violette starts assigning godparents to our yet to be conceived child, and Lars tries to lace the dessert with poison.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, warmth blooming in my chest despite his tone. “Very practical of you.”
His shoulders roll back in a careless shrug. “I always plan ahead, Angel.”