20. SOPHIE
SOPHIE
It is, without question, the most beautiful kitchen I have ever stood in.
I hate that I love it immediately.
“Chi sei?”
Who are you? I turn in time to see an older woman materialize from the pantry.
She’s maybe in her seventies, small and dense, with silver hair pinned back harshly.
Her eyes are black with suspicion and she wields a wooden spoon like she might use it on me.
I remember Vin’s stories about Lucia and growing up in her kitchen, the safety she provided him and Tommy. I wonder if this is her.
“Sophia Bellamorte,” I say. I’m wearing one of Vin’s t-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants. Both are huge on me, and I’m sure I look a little insane to her. “I’m a friend of Vincenzo’s. I’m making him something to eat.”
“No,” she says, flatly.
“Sí.” I cross to the refrigerator and open it without asking. “He hasn’t eaten properly in days. He needs something his stomach can handle. Do you have eggs?”
“Of course I have eggs, but you no cook the eggs for anyone,” the woman snaps, offended. “This is my kitchen.”
“I know, but Vin is my friend.” I close the refrigerator and meet her angry gaze. “I’m going to be respectful of your space, I promise you. I would never disrespect another woman’s kitchen. You’re Lucia, yes?”
She doesn’t respond, but her eyes brighten for a moment when I say her name. But only for a moment. She moves past me to a basket of eggs on the counter and shoves them in my direction without taking her eyes off me.
As I put a pan on the stove, Lucia watches. I ask her questions—where to find utensils, what bowls she’d like me to use—and she begins to relax.
“I am with the Demonio family for 51 years,” she says haughtily.
“Wonderful,” I say, whisking eggs in a metal bowl. “You must have seen so much.”
“Longer than you are alive,” she points out.
“That’s true,” I agree, pouring the eggs into the hot pan.
She grunts and adjusts the flame under the burner. I let her, washing the bowl I whisked eggs in, careful to put it back exactly where I got it.
“Where do you keep the hazelnut liqueur?”
She eyes me for a minute, I’m sure wondering what that has to do with eggs, and waves a hand toward an upper cabinet.
I climb a short step ladder that I’m sure Lucia uses regularly—she’s short like I am—and when I place the liqueur bottle on the counter, I notice a small jar. I hold it up to her.
“These truffles,” I say. ”Are these from Umbria?”
Something shifts in her face. “Alba.”
“White?”
“Of course white.” But there’s a flicker of both pride and respect that crosses her face in a split second.
“They’re extraordinary.” I set them back carefully, exactly where they were. “They had the perfect flavor balance to a risotto. Vin would love that.”
I take the bowl I just cleaned and place it on the counter, pulling three egg yolks apart from their whites with my hands then whip the yolks with three teaspoons of sugar until they are pale and ribbony.
Lucia watches me pull espresso shots and measure the hazelnut liqueur by sight rather than jigger.
When she nods slowly, I feel like I’ve been blessed by a priest.
“I will take a nap,” Lucia says, setting her wooden spoon on its rest then holds up a finger at me. “One hour. You break anything, I find you.”
“Understood.”
She pauses in the doorway and looks back at me through narrowed eyes. Then she’s gone.
I wait until I hear her footsteps on the stairs before I let myself smile.
It’s not long before Vin comes into the kitchen wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, his black hair wet and messy. I finish preparing the drink I was making as he settles into a chair at the small kitchen table.
He looks wrecked: hollowed out, dark bags under his eyes, his jaw unshaven. He watches me through bleary eyes as I set the cup in front of him.
He stares at it. “What is this?”
“Hair of the dog.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you saying? You bitching about my drinking?”
“No.” I turn back to the stove. “I’m making you something to eat.”
He’s quiet as I flip the omelette in the pan and slide it onto a plate. Then he takes a sip and groans. ”Fucking Christ.”
I bite back a smile.
“You know,” I say lightly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, “usually it’s me wearing nothing in a kitchen. Or have you forgotten your rules?”
“So you remember the rules.” His voice is rough. “Didn’t look like it.”
I don’t answer, and I make no move to undress.
As far as I’m concerned, this is Lucia’s kitchen and that would definitely fall under the category of disrespectful.
I’m here to help Vin put himself back together then I’m going home to sleep in my own bed and open my restaurant tomorrow morning. That’s all.
No matter what just happened in the shower.
The chair legs scrape across the floor as Vin rises. I can feel him behind me before he touches me.
His hands find the hem of the huge t-shirt I borrowed from him, and he lifts it over my head in one motion.
“Vin—”
He wraps one hand around my mouth, hooks the other into the waistband of the sweatpants I’m wearing and drags them down until they pool at my ankles. I should try to move away from him. I don’t.
“Spread your legs.” His voice is low, rough. “I need somewhere to come.”
I close my eyes. The shower was amazing. Slipping into that submissive dynamic with him was so easy, so satisfying. But this is even better. This is us, in the kitchen, me cooking, him enforcing the rules.
“The way I see it,” he says, his mouth at my ear, his body pressed along the length of my back, “this one’s on you, Sophia. You showed up to my house unasked, uninvited.”
His hands are everywhere. One gripping my hip, one sliding between my thighs, like he can’t move his hands fast enough. His voice is a steady, filthy refrain. “This is my pussy. My ass. My thighs. My tits. You know that, don’t you, Sophia?”
I can barely grunt in response, my eyes closing, feeling the warmth of him all through me.
“My little cum slut. My fuckdoll. Mine. All fucking MINE.” He pauses then smacks my ass so hard my eyes fly open and I gasp. “Keep fucking making my breakfast, Sophie. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
I hate that I feel his words rather than hear them. I grip the edge of the counter and hold on, actively touching no utensils, no food, nothing on his plate. Because I’m done doing what he wants me to do. I’m done following his rules. I won’t stay in the lane he defines for me.
But I’m also not going anywhere.
His arm wraps around me from behind, pulling me back against him hard, his hand still working between my thighs.
His mouth finds my ear again. “I can feel your heart beating. I can feel you breathing. I know you want this.” His voice breaks slightly on the last part, in a way I’ve never heard before. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
I feel that familiar pressure build, that slow climb to the top that he taught me. I start to shake in his arms and he holds me tighter to him, his face buried in my neck, my back against his chest, his finger working me rhythmically, relentlessly. If he keeps this up, I’m going to—
“You’re mine, Sophia. All mine.”
I come apart. Literally break, something cracking open inside me that I didn’t realize had been holding so much back.
A sob starts in my chest and explodes out of me as I shake in his arms. He holds me through it, his forehead pressing against the back of my head, his arm locked around me, holding me up as I cry.
When the shaking slows, he kicks the sweatpants out of the way, drops a single kiss on my shoulder, then releases me. The chair scrapes the floor as he sits back at the table behind me.
I start to reach for the sweatpants, but he stops me.
“Do not put those back on.” He nods at the clothes on the floor. “When you’re home, no clothes in the kitchen. You know the rules, Sophia.”
Home.
I pick the clothes up off the floor and don’t answer. He says the word ‘home’ so easily, like it’s true.
But it’s not true. This isn’t my home. He isn’t my home. Another woman will be in this kitchen, cooking for him, taking care of him, getting fucked by him.
The thought cuts through me like a knife but I let it. I need the reminder. I need my need for him to be cut out like a tumor.
I turn back to his plate, putting the finishing touches on it. I can feel him watching me, but when I turn around, he’s gone.
Sighing, I wrap the plate and put it in the refrigerator, then pull on the discarded sweatpants and t-shirt.
For the next few hours, I’m in the kitchen alone, making Vin meals for the next few days.
When I’m done, I make the decision to abandon the clothes I wore here and get home as fast as possible.
Once I’m out of the kitchen, I head toward where I think the front door is. This house is cavernous, with too many hallways, and the light is low as the sunlight fades. When I finally find the front door, my shoes and jacket where I left them, two guards step in front of me, blocking my way.
“Excuse me.” I smile politely, but I know before they respond that this isn’t going to go well. “I need to get home.”
The taller one doesn’t move. “Boss says you need to stay home.”
I blink, my smile faltering. “You mean go home. I need to go home.” I say it slowly and clearly. “I’ve done what I came to do.”
The guards glance at each other and one shakes his head. “He was very explicit. You are staying here.”