Chapter 2
Chapter Two
STEVIE
I didn’t sleep last night.
Obviously I can’t sleep.
I witnessed a murder. Got interrogated by police. Accidentally confessed to stalking a mobster. Spent all night lying in bed, thinking about the way Dario’s voice felt on my skin instead of processing the trauma like a normal person.
Same thing all day.
So I do what I always do when my brain won’t shut up.
I bake.
Stress-baking is a time-honored tradition in the Overthinking Women community. Some people journal. Some people meditate. I make cookies that I’ll eat standing over the sink at 4 AM while contemplating my life choices.
Tonight it’s peanut butter chocolate chip. Classic. Reliable. The kind of cookie that doesn’t judge you for being attracted to alleged murderers.
The repetitive motion helps. Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs. Mix in flour. Fold in chips. Scoop. Bake. Repeat.
Don’t think about dark eyes.
Don’t think about his voice saying breathe.
Don’t think about how he stayed when he should have run.
The timer dings.
I swap trays. Slide the new batch into the oven. Set the timer again.
Mechanical. Precise. If I just keep moving, I don’t have to think about the fact that I just torpedoed a man’s entire life because I couldn’t look away from him for five consecutive Tuesdays.
The kitchen’s closing in. Too warm. Too sweet. Not enough oxygen for both my guilt and three dozen cookies.
I need air.
I wipe my hands on my apron and step out onto the front porch.
It’s that in-between time. Not quite dark but getting there. Streetlights flickering on. The world going soft at the edges.
And there’s a man leaning against a car parked across the street.
My brain cataloging reflex kicks in before rational thought can intervene.
Tall. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that suggests he either works out obsessively or hurts people for a living. Probably both.
Dark hair. Leather jacket that’s seen some shit. Jeans that fit in a way that should be illegal.
Thighs that could crush a watermelon.
Stop it, Stevie. Jesus Christ.
He straightens when he sees me. Starts crossing the street.
And oh.
Oh no.
I recognize the walk first. Confident. Controlled. The way he moves like violence is always an option but he’s choosing not to use it right now and my body reacts like it’s disappointed.
Then the face.
Enzo.
From the restaurant. The one who kept saying Boss, we gotta go while Dario stayed.
My uterus just sent a mass text to every nerve ending: Abort mission. Or don’t. Unclear. Systems failing.
He’s coming toward my house.
A mob guy is walking toward my house at dusk and I’m standing here in my stress-baking apron cataloging his thighs like a deranged sports commentator.
I should be scared. I’m not. That feels important and also incredibly stupid.
“Hi, Enzo,” I say when he reaches the sidewalk. Because apparently I greet men sent by criminal families like I’m the welcome wagon for organized crime.
Welcome to the neighborhood! Here’s a casserole and would you like a blowjob?
He stops. Blinks. His lashes are long. Thick. Completely wasted on a man who probably uses them to distract people before he breaks their kneecaps.
His eyes are lighter than Dario’s. Caramel instead of coffee. Still dark enough to drown in if you weren’t careful.
I’m not careful.
I’ve never been careful.
“You know my name,” he says.
His voice has this cadence. Italian-American. Brooklyn, maybe? The kind of accent that makes innocent words sound vaguely threatening.
Or vaguely sexy.
Both. Definitely both.
“Dario said it,” I manage. “At the restaurant. When you were trying to get him to leave.”
He’s staring at me like he’s deciding whether I’m a problem or an opportunity.
The answer is both, Enzo. For you? Both.
“Did Dario send you?” I ask, because I apparently don’t value my continued existence. “Is he okay?”
Something crosses his face. Confusion. Surprise. Maybe amusement if the situation weren’t so fucked up.
He’s clearly realized I’m not normal. Took him long enough.
“You...” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re worried about him?”
God, he’s got strong hands. Bigger than Dario’s. Fingers that would bruise thighs.
“Of course I am.” It comes out more defensive than I meant. “I’m about to testify against him. That’s not... I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then don’t.”
The words land hard. Simple. Direct.
We stare at each other.
I study him in the fading light. Younger than Dario, maybe late twenties. Scar on his cheek. Nose broken at least once, healed crooked. The kind of face that’s been in a few fights and looks better for it.
He’s sexy in that dangerous, rough-edged way that makes my hindbrain scream run while my lady parts scream climb him like a tree.
My survival instincts and my reproductive system are in a cage match and nobody’s winning.
“Do you want cookies?” I ask. Because apparently under stress I turn into an Italian grandmother instead of a functional adult.
Feed them. Solve everything with carbs. Ignore the fact that you’re horny for the mob.
He blinks again. “What?”
“Cookies. I made peanut butter chocolate chip. They’re still warm.”
There’s a long pause where he just... looks at me.
Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or if this is some kind of elaborate trap involving baked goods.
“You’re offering me cookies,” he says slowly.
“Yes.”
“After I showed up at your house unannounced.” He stretches his neck.
I could run my nose right along… “You looked sad.”
“I look threatening.”
No, sir. The threat you pose is to my self-control.
“You look like you haven’t had a home-cooked meal in six weeks and survive on vending machine coffee and violence.”
Just the corners of his mouth tip up and the steel in his eyes softens like butter left on the counter too long. “That’s... surprisingly accurate.”
“So? Cookies?”
He considers this for a moment. “Yeah. Okay. Cookies.”
I lead him inside.
My apartment’s a mess. Chaos in every corner. But it smells like cookies, which is something.
Enzo fills the doorway for a second before stepping in. His eyes do a sweep, quick, efficient, the kind of scan that tells me he’s cataloging exits and potential weapons without thinking about it.
Occupational habit, probably.
Or he’s planning my murder and wants to know his options.
Either way, it’s extremely hot and I need to get a grip.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the small kitchen table. “I’ll get you some.”
He sits. Watches me move around the kitchen like I’ve just moved from background noise to active concern.
I plate cookies. Pour milk. Set both in front of him.
He picks up a cookie. Takes a bite.
His eyes close.
Oh.
That’s not fair. That expression. The way his whole face softens for just a second. Like he forgot he’s supposed to be intimidating and just... exists.
I feel it between my legs and severely resent my nervous system.
“Good?” I ask, even though I can see the answer.
“Really good.” He takes another bite. “You stress-bake?”
“How did you know that?”
“There’s like four dozen cookies cooling on your counter and you’re wearing an apron at 9 PM.” He gestures with the cookie. “Either you stress-bake or you’re prepping for the world’s saddest bake sale.”
“Fair point.”
I sit across from him. Though his lap looks more inviting. Watch him eat my cookies and try not to think about his hands. Or his mouth. Or the way his throat works when he swallows.
I shouldn’t be wondering how that motion would feel against my tongue. I absolutely am.
Get it together, Stevie. He’s here on mob business. This is not a date.
“So,” I say. “Did they send you to threaten me? Rough me up? Convince me not to testify?”
He pauses mid-bite. Sets the cookie down carefully. “Would it work if they did?”
“No.”
“Then why would I waste my time?” He picks up his milk. Takes a sip. “I’m here to make sure you understand what you’re stepping into. What testifying means. For you and for Dario.”
“I know what it means.”
“Do you?” His caramel eyes lock on mine. “You saw something you shouldn’t have. You gave a statement that’s going to put him away for twenty years, minimum. And you think the family’s just going to... let that go?”
The dozen cookies I ate churn in my gut.
“You’re here to scare me.”
“I’m here to be honest with you.” He leans forward. Not threatening, just... present. “You keep living your normal life, going to work, baking cookies. And they keep watching. Waiting. Figuring out if you’re worth the trouble.”
My pulse spikes. My body reacts like this is foreplay, and I want to scream at it to get its priorities straight.
“Am I? Worth the trouble?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “That depends on whether you testify or not.”
The implication hangs in the air between us.
I should be terrified. Should be calling the police, hitting him with a cookie sheet and not noticing the way his hands dwarf the milk glass. Or wondering whether his hair is as soft as it looks. Or thinking about tracing his neck tattoo with my tongue.
“Can you...” I swallow. “Can you tell Dario something for me?”
Enzo raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“That I’m sorry. That I wish things were different.” The words come out rushed. “That he was kind to me when he didn’t have to be, and I won’t forget that.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve just complicated things.
Join the club, buddy. I’ve been doing that to myself for twenty-eight years.
“You want me to tell the man you’re sending to prison that you’re... sorry?”
“Yes.”
“And that he was kind?”
“He was.”
Enzo scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“No, I mean...” He laughs. Rough and surprised. “You witnessed a murder. You’re about to testify against a made man. And you’re worried about hurting his feelings.”
When he puts it like that, it does sound ridiculous.
“I notice things,” I say defensively. “People. The way they are underneath. And he wasn’t... he wasn’t a monster in that moment. He was just someone trying to make sure I didn’t have a panic attack.”
“He killed a man.”
“I know.”
“In front of you.”
“I know.” I stand. Start grabbing tupperware. “But he also stayed when he could have run. And I can hold both those things at the same time.”
I start loading cookies into a container. Snap the lid on. Write FOR DARIO on a piece of tape.
“Here.” I hold it out. “Take these to him. Tell him they’re from me.”
Something about the idea of him eating something I made settles hot and territorial in my chest.
Enzo takes the container slowly. Like I handed him a dildo and not a box of cookies.
“You’re sending the guy you’re testifying against cookies,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe.” I meet his eyes. “But I owe him something. Even if it’s just cookies and an apology he’ll never accept.”
We stand in my tiny kitchen. Him holding cookies for his boss. Me in my stress-baking apron, committed to this absolutely unhinged course of action.
“They’re going to send me back,” he says finally. “Or send someone else. Someone who won’t ask nicely.”
Shit. Okay.
“Will they hurt me? Like you were supposed to?”
“I don’t know.” He looks genuinely troubled. “I don’t want them to. But I can’t promise they won’t send someone who doesn’t care that you make really good cookies and worry about people you shouldn’t.”
“Can you ask them not to?” I sound like a kid begging for a sleepover. “Just… don’t send someone mean. Send you.”
His expression softens. “I’ll try. But, Stevie?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You need to understand,” he says gently, which somehow makes it worse. “What testifying against Dario means. Not just for him. For you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
We look at each other across my small kitchen table, and I see it in his eyes. He’s not trying to scare me. He’s trying to warn me.
“Thank you for the cookies,” he says quietly. “I’ll make sure Dario gets them.”
He stands. Heads for the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame.
His ass is unfair.
“For what it’s worth,” he says without turning around, “Telling the truth isn’t always worth it. Dario’s not what you’ve been told. Not a cold-blooded killer.”
And then he’s gone.
After he leaves, I lock the door.
I sit alone in my kitchen surrounded by cooling racks and the smell of peanut butter and chocolate, and I think about Dario Marchetti sitting somewhere eating cookies I made him with Enzo.
I think about what else they could do together.
My body’s still buzzing like it expects company. I hate that I’m disappointed.
I need therapy.
Or a mob tag team.
I vote mob tag team.