Chapter 14 #2
“Mmm. This is so good," she says.
“Don't sound so surprised.” I chuckle and scoop some pasta on my plate.
“I'm constantly surprised by you.” Her mouth quirks upward. “It's becoming a theme.”
“Cheese?” I ask, holding up a container of freshly grated parmesan.
“Of course,” she says. “It would be un-Italian to deny cheese.”
I wink and sprinkle some cheese on her pasta then on my own. “Happy to keep you on your toes.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Reaper positions himself between us, his head whipping back and forth like he's watching a tennis match. I spoon some pasta into one of his bowls and place it on the floor at my feet. He practically inhales it.
“How's the Harrington-Cole deal coming? Any news?” I ask.
“It’s on track. Jenny Whitmore confirmed the meeting for next week.
Dominic's calmer now, and the Russians haven't made another move.” She twirls pasta around her fork. “My father would have handled it differently, you know, with guns instead of lawyers. But this way, nobody dies, and we still come out on top.” But her expression doesn’t look convinced.
“Different isn't worse.”
She shakes her head. “Tell that to the capos. Half of them probably think I'm too soft. The other half are waiting to see if I fail so they can say they saw it coming.”
“Don’t worry yourself with what they think. They're going to see you for who you really are and what you can do for your father’s organization. They just need time to adjust to a new way of working.”
She looks at me, her fork in the air. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
I shove a forkful of pasta into my mouth and chew for a second. “I've seen you work. They haven't. Not really. Give them a few more wins like Castellano and they'll come around.”
“Or they'll resent me for proving them wrong. I don’t know what would be worse.”
“Some might resent you. But the smart ones won't.” I shrug. “You can't control how people react. You can only control what you do.”
She takes another bite of her pasta and has a sip of the red wine I set out next to her plate. “When did you get so wise?”
I grin. “I was born this way. It's a real burden.”
She laughs and my heart does a little jump. It's the first real laugh I've heard from her in days.
“So humble, too,” she says.
“Humility is overrated.”
“Noted.” She rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. Then she leans forward with her chin on her hand. “Tell me something I don't know about you.”
I furrow my brow, a little caught off-guard. It’s not the kind of thing I’ve come to expect from my all-business, no-nonsense wife. “Like what?”
“Anything. Something that isn't about the family business or security protocols or any of this.” She waves her fork around. “Something normal.”
“Okay.” I pause for a second. “I hate olives.”
“Which kind?”
“All kinds, but mainly the ones with the red things in the middle.”
“Pimentos.”
“Yeah, whatever. They suck.”
“So that’s your thing. Olives.”
“You asked for something normal. That's normal.” I stretch my arms overhead and don’t miss the way her eyes trace over them.
“My grandmother used to put them in everything.
Salads, pasta dishes, chicken dishes, sandwiches.
I'd pick them out one by one, and she'd smack my hand and tell me I was insulting her cooking.”
“Did you stop?”
“No. I just got faster.”
She grins. “Such a rebel.”
“Yep. From a young age.” I nod toward her. “Your turn. Give me something.”
She taps her fingertips on the counter. “I can't whistle.”
I let out a snort. “What? Everyone can whistle.”
“Not me. I've tried. It just... doesn't work.” She demonstrates, her lips twisting tight. Her face turns red, and her eyes fly open wide like she’s taking a huge breath to blow out birthday candles on a cake. But what comes out is more of a breathy hiss than a whistle. “See?”
I can’t help but snicker. “Jesus, that's tragic.”
“I know. Luna teases me about it constantly.” Her expression softens at the mention of her sister. “She can do that loud whistle, you know, the one with two fingers? The kind that stops taxis. I've never been more jealous of anyone in my life.”
“I get it. That’s a crucial life skill.”
“Yes! It’s essential. I'll never be able to hail a cab in an emergency.”
“I'll teach you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You think you can succeed where decades of practice have failed? Quite epically, might I add?”
“I'm very confident.”
“There's that Molloy humility again,” she says with a grin.
“What can I tell you? I know my skills.”
“I used to want to be a marine biologist,” she blurts out suddenly.
“Really? Wait, before or after you slayed corporate America?”
“Before.” She giggles. “When I was eight. We took a trip to the aquarium, and I became obsessed with jellyfish. I told my father I was going to study them when I grew up. Live on a research boat somewhere. Travel the world.”
“Oh yeah? What’d he have to say about that?”
“He laughed. Not like, mean, just... dismissive. Told me I'd grow out of it.” She shrugs. “And I did, eventually. But I think that was the first time I realized my future wasn't really mine to decide. He already had plans for me. What I wanted didn't really play a part.”
“Is that why you built your own company? To have something that was yours to control?”
She looks at me, surprised. Like she didn't expect me to connect those dots.
“Partly,” she admits. “When I got to college, I realized I could just... not be part of my family’s business. I could build something separate. Something clean.” Her smile fades and her lips twist. “Took over two decades, and here I am anyway. Talk about irony biting me in the ass, huh?”
I don’t mention how very lucky I think irony is. “You're not the same person you would have been if you'd just stepped into it and accepted a future planned for you.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No. You built something real first. You know who you are outside of all this. You figured yourself out, how to be strong and powerful all on your own.” I hold her gaze. “That matters.”
Her eyes drop to her empty pasta bowl. I wonder if I've pushed too far, said too much.
Then her eyes latch onto mine. “You know, most people don't talk to me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I'm a person instead of a position.”
“You are a person.”
“I know. It's just...” She toys with her bun. “Most people want something. A favor, a connection, access to my father. Even before all this, conversations always felt like negotiations. Like everyone was angling for something.”
“And me?”
“You, I haven't figured out yet.” She tilts her head, studying me. “What do you want, Lochlan?”
The question hangs between us. Loaded as a gun.
I could deflect. Make a joke. Keep things light.
But the truth gnaws at my brain. And I’m tired of keeping it bottled up.
“Right now? I want you to finish your dinner. And maybe get more than four hours of sleep tonight.” I pause. “Beyond that... I'm still figuring it out.”
It's honest. Maybe too honest.
She nods slowly. “Fair enough.”
“Hey, have you spoken to Vincenzo?" I ask, shifting the subject. “How's he been?”
Adriana’s face relaxes into a smile. “So great, actually. He’s been talking me through the politics, helping me navigate the men and their personalities.
He called this afternoon just to check in and see how I was holding up.
He's been like that my whole life. Always looking out for me, making sure I have everything I need. He was always so excited for every milestone I accomplished in my career, one of my biggest cheerleaders. I feel really lucky to have him in my life.”
“He seems like a solid guy. You need good people in your corner. And just so you know, I think you’ve got more allies than you think. Vincenzo will keep them in line until you win them all over. And that will happen sooner than later.”
Something shifts between us again. The air changes. It’s heavier, thicker, and charged by the same electricity from the car.
She looks away, breaking the spell.
“I was thinking of watching something,” she says, hopping off the stool. “Mindless television. Something to help shut my brain off.”
“Sounds good.”
“You could...” she says, her gaze almost a little shy as she looks at me. “Join. If you want.”
It's just an invitation to sit on the same couch. Watch the same screen. Exist in the same space without walls between us.
But at the same time, it's everything.
“Yeah,” I say. “I could do that.”
We settle on the couch after we clean up the kitchen. Reaper immediately jumps up and wedges himself between us, which is probably for the best. She picks some reality show about real estate agents selling mansions on one of the streaming services.
Halfway through the first episode, she shifts her body toward mine. Her head tips toward my shoulder. Before I can react, she catches herself and straightens up.
I don't say anything.
By the second episode, she's not fighting it anymore. Her head rests lightly against my shoulder.
I stay perfectly still, barely breathing because I don’t want to give her an excuse to move away.
By the third episode, she's asleep.
I glance down. Her eyelashes are dark against her cheeks, the worry line between her brows finally smooth. Her body is relaxed, her breathing slow and even.
She trusted me enough to fall asleep on me.
I don't move. I just sit there as still as possible with her draped against my side. Reaper snores between us. I think about those worn romance paperbacks and this woman who carries the world on her shoulders and never asks anyone to help her hold it up.
I'm in trouble.
I know I'm in trouble.
And I really don't care.