Chapter Twelve
Tank
I watch Bianca with a mix of irritation and fascination. Her arms are crossed, one eyebrow arched, her stance and expression daring me to back down from her challenge. It’s irritating as hell. It’s also hot as hell. I roll up my sleeves and meet her gaze head-on, refusing to budge an inch.
“Alright,” I say, leaning forward, looming over her. “You want to taste what I can do? Fine. Let’s see if I can impress you.”
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans back against the counter, looking every bit like a cat toying with a mouse, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes are lit with fire, challenging and enticing all at once. “You talk a big game,” she says, her voice a perfect blend of mockery and intrigue. “I’m waiting for the execution.”
I bark out a laugh, genuinely amused by this unexpected showdown.
“Execution, huh? Funny choice of words.”
She shrugs, playing at innocence, but I’m not fooled. “Maybe I just know what happens to men who don’t follow through.”
She’s baiting me. Pushing me. Testing me. And damn if I don’t like it—especially the way her eyes burn with that unyielding fire. I’m not used to someone like her, someone who isn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with me and give as good as she gets. It’s intoxicating. I grab a mixing bowl and get to work.
I start working the dough—flour, eggs, olive oil, water—all coming together under my hands, smooth and elastic. I let the rhythm of it take over, the familiar feel of the dough transforming, like magic, into something tangible and real.
Bianca watches, tilting her head like she wasn’t expecting me to actually know what I’m doing.
“I don’t get it,” she finally says.
I lift a brow, my hands still working, shaping the dough, laying it out on the counter, pounding it, working it, while my mind is half-focused forward on flavor combinations to put inside the dough that’s just minutes away from becoming ravioli. “Don’t get what?”
She gestures vaguely at me. “You. The big, scary, probably-has-a-body-count baker who chains men to his bed and also… makes whatever that’s going to be… from scratch?”
“Pasta. Ravioli, to be exact,” I say, rolling out the dough. “And the reason is: it’s a hobby. Some guys golf. I bake, and I cook.”
She snorts. “Some guys also don’t kidnap people and hand-make ravioli in the same twenty-four-hour period.”
“True. Some don’t. I do.” I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s got a point.
I move on to the filling — ricotta, Parmesan, a little mozzarella, and some black truffle — mixing everything together in a bowl while Bianca watches closely.
Too closely.
It’s as if she knows the effect her closeness has on me, the way she makes my skin feel flush, my heart race, and my eyes flicker constantly away from what I’m working on to see just how well her shirt hugs her body and how, even with no sleep and a mountain of stress on her and the fact that I know she’s related to the man that I sorely want to murder, that teasing smirk on her lips burns hotter than anything in this kitchen.
I slice the dough into even squares, working methodically, trying to ignore the electric current that seems to pulse between us. The more she watches, the more aware I become of every movement. I spoon the filling onto each square, then fold and seal them with practiced precision.
“I'm not used to an audience," I say, breaking the charged silence.
"I'm not used to being cooked for," she counters, reaching for a bit of leftover cheese. I catch her wrist before she can snag it.
“Patience," I growl, my fingers circling her delicate wrist. The pulse beneath my thumb quickens. "Good things come to those who wait."
She doesn't pull away. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both," I release her, returning to my work. "Hand me that pot."
She does, and our fingers brush. It's brief, meaning nothing but everything at once. I watch her face as she watches my hands, the way her eyes follow my movements with a kind of intensity that makes my throat go dry. For all the heat between us, there's something else there — a genuine curiosity, like she's trying to figure me out.
I drop the ravioli into the boiling water and move to prepare the sauce. Butter, sage, a splash of white wine, a touch of cream. Simple but rich.
"So, when did you learn to cook? Prison?" she asks, her voice deceptively casual.
I laugh, surprised by how easily she catches me off guard. "No. Not prison. Taught myself after the military. The shit they fed us in the mess tents was inspiration enough to learn.” I shake my head. “Wish I would’ve learned sooner, but growing up with my dad was..." I trail off, my words hanging there, suspended between us, but even unfinished, she knows. The admission is more than I meant to share, but it lingers, chipping away at the silence.
Bianca’s watching me, hazel eyes sharp but carrying a new softness that shifts something in my chest. "Mine too.” Her voice is quieter, holding a note I haven’t heard from her before. “And not just him, either…”
Her words rest heavy in the air, weighted with rawness.
“You do this often?” she asks, changing the subject. She props her chin on her hand, the pose making her look more relaxed, more open.
“Do what?”
“Make pasta for strangers?”
“I cook for a lot of strangers. Everyone who comes through that door is a stranger, and I prefer to keep it that way,” I say. It’s the truth. I’m not a people person and I like it that way.
“So why invite me back here? Why cook for me?”
Her questions have a sharpness, but there’s an undercurrent there, a tug that makes my gut twist. I look at her, her eyes filled with something far more dangerous than her brother’s snarling men, and I know the real answer, the one I’m not telling her yet — I don’t want her to be a stranger.
“You challenged me.”
It’s not the whole truth, but close enough. What I don’t say is that I want to impress her. I want to see that teasing smile disappear, to catch that split second of shock when she learns just how fucking good I am at this. There’s more to it, though. This is about Moretti, too. She’s my way in, my best chance to get close enough to Victor to do real damage.
But that’s not why my pulse kicks up every time she leans closer toward me.
Bianca hums, the sound thoughtful, pleasant. “So you take all your challenges this seriously?”
“Only the ones worth winning.”
She rolls her eyes. “Wow. Really? Do you come up with these lines in advance or just wing it?”
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Her lips part slightly, and her eyes widen just enough to show me she doesn’t have a quick comeback ready. For the first time, I see her throat work a little, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face, and it’s exactly like I imagined. Just seeing it makes my head swim and my chest pound, like maybe the thing I wanted most from this encounter wasn’t just to impress her but to get past all those walls and see her like this: unguarded and just a little vulnerable.
The unexpected rush of it makes me dizzy. I busy myself with the pan, focusing on the sauce, the sizzle of butter and sage, the splash of white wine, the way the delicate aroma fills the space between us.
“You’re serious about this, then,” she says, her voice lower, almost to herself, but still loud enough that I can hear.
“About what?”
“Impressing me.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Not surprised you’re trying,” Bianca says, her eyes bright and locked on me, “just impressed that it might actually work.”
Those words send a jolt through me and I work fast — transferring the ravioli to finish in the sauce, where they bubble and soak up every bit of the rich, fragrant liquid.
I glance at Bianca.
She’s still watching me, her arms crossed, but she’s no longer smirking. She’s curious. Intrigued.
And something else.
Something that makes my chest feel too tight.
I focus on the food — plating the pasta with a dash of salt, pepper, and some chopped fresh sage.
Then I slide a plate in front of her. “Moment of truth, sweetheart.”
She eyes the dish. “If this sucks, I’m never letting you hear the end of it.”
"Eat.”
She picks up the fork and takes a bite. Her lips close around it, and I watch, transfixed, as her eyes widen. As her throat works as she swallows. And then it happens — a sound — deep, full-bodied, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep inside her.
A moan.
My entire body goes still, every nerve on high alert.
Bianca’s eyes flutter shut, just for a second, like she’s feeling this pasta in her soul, like it’s shattered that careful facade she holds so close, the one that makes me want to break through to see her just like this — unguarded. Vulnerable.
I exhale sharply. Fuck.
Then she opens her eyes. Swallows. Her lips curl into a smile.
“Knew you were a moaner,” I murmur, unable to stop the words.
Her eyes go wide and zero in on mine. She watches me, teasing, challenging. Color burns from her cheeks, down her neck, making an irresistible path beneath the collar of her shirt, where the first hint of skin and cleavage teases at me, stoking an already out-of-control flame.
I watch, mesmerized, as her tongue flicks out, catching a stray bit of sauce on her bottom lip.
I feel it like a gut punch, clench my jaw, and force back a moan of my own. The tension is a living thing, palpable, making the air around us crackle.
She tilts her head, like she’s about to say something sharp — something that’ll keep this game going, something that’ll match the teasing fire in her eyes, and cut me up more than any knife could.
But I don’t give her the chance — I close the distance, grab her face, and kiss her.
Her sharp inhale is the only warning I get before she kisses me back, fierce and greedy, like she’s trying to outdo me, trying to win, trying to make me feel as undone as she just did. She tastes like wine and herbs, like heat and stubbornness and something I shouldn’t want, but can’t resist.
Her hands curl into my shirt and tug, pulling me closer.
I deepen the kiss, growling low in my throat when she shifts against me, pressing closer, grinding her body against mine, her tongue tasting the inside of my mouth while another moan sounds in her chest.
Then, suddenly, she pulls back.
We’re both breathing hard.
She stares at me, eyes dark, confused, aflame with something indescribable.
I should say something. I should reel it back in. I can’t do this — I can’t feel this way — with Victor Moretti’s sister. Instead, I say, “Looks like you like the taste of what I have to give you. I’ll be catering that dinner of yours, then, huh?”
She lets out a sharp laugh, shaking her head, but she doesn’t move away.
She just watches me. Like she’s recalculating everything. And then she says, “Maybe I need seconds before I decide.”