31. Chapter 31
Ifelt horrible leaving Luciana at her parents’ house. But, I was bound to the mafia, and unfortunately duty had called. I had made sure Gennaro would be nowhere near the home before dropping her off. If he ever laid a hand on her again, he would pay with his life, and I would not make it painless.
We were having a meeting about evidence we had collected on Leone Alto. We were certain it would be easy because of how bloodthirsty he was; surely, he must have left some trace of his crimes behind. Unfortunately, all we had was circumstantial evidence.
Moments like those are when I wished a worked at a nine to five - it could have easily been held over Zoom. And I wouldn’t have had to disappoint Luciana by leaving her.
But, this was the Mafia, and you couldn’t discuss illegal business via webcam.
“I don’t get it,” Ettore seethed. “Leone is the scummiest man in NYC. How have we not found something more concrete?”
“It must be pretty big if he kept it this well hidden,” Rocco said.
“I wonder what the larger scope of this is,” Ettore muttered, thinking out loud.
“The Italian Mafia controls what, twenty percent of the market? We specialize in opiates; no use in including anything else.” I paused, rolling up my sleeves to my elbows. “My best guess is an entire market shake up. But who fucking knows with Leone?”
“I wish he wasn’t so untouchable,” Felix said, scowling in his usual overly emotional manner. “Everyone hates him, yet there’s always someone who will protect him.”
“When you have that type of money, people will do anything for you,” Rocco responded.
Facing their frustration and simmering anger, I knew it was time to end the meeting. We were heading in circles, and the longer I stayed, the more worried I would get about Luciana. “Let’s head out.”
Stepping out of the dimly lit room into the chill of the winter night, I resolved to collect Luciana immediately. Her father shouldn’t be home yet, but I wanted to get there as fast as possible so there were no surprises. The wind rushed past my face and my heart pounded in my chest as I walked towards my car.
When I was five minutes away, I texted Luciana to let her know I was almost there. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as I waited for the light to turn green, eager to get back to her.
As soon as I arrived, she was already standing on the front porch, her arms crossed tightly over her chest to ward off the cold. Her stance was tense, her expression troubled. My insides twisted at the thought of what she may have gone through. Had her father come home unexpectedly, unleashing his wrath upon her?
She all but jumped in the car when I pulled up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you ok? Did Gennaro come home?”
“No, I just,” she hesitated, “Got into a fight with Rolando. It looks like my father is rubbing off on him.”
Why was my wife lying to me? I felt an odd sense of betrayal as I looked at Luciana; her face a mask hiding whatever secrets she was hiding.
Years of honing my skills as an interrogator had taught me to read the subtle signs of deception, and they were all there. The twitch of her eye, the slight tremble in her voice, the way her fingers fidgeted nervously. Despite her attempts to hide it, I knew she was lying to me.
“You sure that’s it?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “Can we just…go home?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should push her for more information. We had just started to feel like an actual couple, like this marriage wasn’t only for show. I didn’t want to scare her away by questioning her.
“Ok,” I said.
Luciana didn’t respond. She just stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts.
“Have you eaten dinner?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Do you want to get something or cook at home?”
“Hmm,” she bit her lower lip, weighing her options. “I got food for lunch. I can cook us dinner at home.”
“Do you want me to cook for us?” I wiggled my eyebrows playfully.
To say I wasn’t a natural born cook was putting it lightly. My attempts at cooking usually resulted in burnt pans and undercooked meals. Before Luciana came into my life, I survived on prepackaged meal delivery services and takeout dinners from local restaurants.
“I don’t have a death wish,” she giggled, finally breaking free from the trance that she had been in.
“Ok, I’ll let you supervise,” I said, placing my hand on her upper thigh.
I drove us home in silence, allowing the soft melodies of the radio to fill the car. The familiar roads leading to our apartment were jam-packed with rush hour traffic, making the drive home longer than usual.
As soon as we reached home, Luciana headed straight to the kitchen. She looked into the fridge, staring so hard one might think she was contemplating the meaning of life rather than deciding what to make for dinner.
“Any thoughts?” I asked.
“Pasta,” she responded, grabbing some ingredients out of the fridge and placing them on the counter.
I watched her flit to the cabinets and pull flour and salt out, adding them to her stack of ingredients.
“Not that I’m questioning your judgement, Chef Jaws,” I said. “But don’t you need noodles to make pasta?”
Her laughter echoed through the kitchen as she cracked eggs into a bowl, their shells clinking against the ceramic surface. “I don’t use store-bought pasta, Emilio.”
“You make the noodles?”
She nodded, continuing to crack the eggs one by one into the bowl. No wonder her pasta always tasted so damn good. She had been making each ingredient with care and skill, creating a masterpiece of taste in every dish.
“How can I help?”
Luciana looked at me hesitantly, as if me helping in the kitchen would cause it to burn down. Despite her apprehension, she selected a handful of mushrooms and a sharp, gleaming knife from the countertop.
“Chop these into tiny bits,” she said.
Our movements were synchronized, like two perfect cogs in a well-oiled wheel. As we worked together to prepare dinner, our laughter echoed through the kitchen. Luciana, with her culinary skills, would occasionally (or rather, often) step in to guide me and ensure that each dish was prepared to perfection. The smell of sizzling spices and bubbling sauces filled the air as we chatted and joked, enjoying each other’s company. In that moment, it felt like time had slowed down and all that mattered was the warmth of our relationship and the taste of the delicious meal we were creating together.
“I can’t believe you do this almost every night,” I said, looking at our finished meal.
Our main course consisted of a bowl of delicate angel hair noodles covered in a rich, velvety mushroom sauce. On the side, we prepared a fresh salad and slices of warm garlic bread to complete the meal.
“Mhm. What wine should we have?” she asked.
“You pick.”
Luciana made her way to the wine rack, taking her time to examine the selection before selecting one. She handed me a bottle of Pinot Noir and I uncorked it for us to enjoy.
I filled our cups to the brim, the ruby liquid swirling and forming a mini tempest in the confines of the crystal glasses. We clinked our glasses together, and a toast was made to a successful dinner preparation.
As we took our seats across the beautifully laid table, with the candlelight casting a warm glow over the meal we’d prepared, I couldn’t help but look at Luciana in admiration. She lifted her fork, twirling the angel hair strands effortlessly before savoring each bite as if it was her last.
“It’s delicious,” she said.
“Well, you prepared it. Of course it is.”
She reacted to my teasing with an eye roll, having grown accustomed to my playful jabs. I took a forkful of pasta of pasta myself. And she was right - it was divine.
With the last bite of pasta savored and the final sip of wine drank, a warm contentment settled around us like a soft blanket. Luciana leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed in satisfaction. Chef Jaws had worked hard tonight.
“I’ll clean up,” I said as I stood up, grabbing our empty plates off the table.
“Huh? I can help.”
“I got it,” I said.
“Thank you.” Luciana smiled at me. And although she had done it countless times before, it never failed to make my heart flutter.