Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Siobhán
T he rustle of plastic and the clank of pots and pans traveled up the stairs. I padded down them dressed in leggings, a sweatshirt, and post-sex euphoria. My cheeks were warm, the flush Luca put there likely brightening my pale complexion. I fanned my face; I needed to play it cool.
I combed my hair with my fingers, taming the rat’s nest into a ponytail, and took the tie from between my teeth to fix it in place. But my insides remained a tangled mess. More than usual.
Half of me wanted to flit across the kitchen with the corners of my mouth pinned to my ears in a blissful grin. The other half wanted to smack the first half upside the head and remind her that she’d been kidnapped and nearly killed. By a player. And not just any player. A player in the Mafia who’d broken her heart and had a vendetta against her family. Not exactly a situation where a rational person should be glowing.
I stepped off the stairs and into the kitchen. The soft light of the early-evening sun and the fresh breeze through the French doors set the stage, but Luca stole the show. His role? Domestic god.
Half his hair was tied back the way he wore it the morning I found him playing the violin. His fitted joggers sat low on his hips, and the naked expanse of his muscled back flexed with each item he placed on the counter. Goosebumps prickled my skin. Pleasant, happy, hopeful goosebumps.
“What’s all this?” I stopped behind him and peeked around his shoulder at the array of ingredients and bowls. Behind me, two plastic Starmarket bags sat on the island. “And when did you get groceries?”
“I told you I could cook.” He bent down and retrieved the colander from the lower cabinet. “The groceries I got on my way home. That’s why I was late. But I left them in the car when I saw Agent Asshole.”
“Agent Asshole.” I snickered. “Perfect.”
“Right?” He lifted his chin toward the island. “Make yourself useful and open the wine.”
All that was left in the plastic bags was a package of fresh pasta and a bottle of red. I placed the items on the island. “Bags?”
“Inside the door to the garage. On your right.”
I took the bags to the garage, shoved them in the bag hanging on the inside of the door, and walked back into the kitchen to the cabinets next to the fridge where Luca kept his wine glasses. He diced a slab of pancetta on the other side of the sink. I watched him for a moment, holding a glass in each hand, struck by the novelty of the scene unfolding. So domestic. So normal. So not us.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just admiring your technique.”
He snorted. “The corkscrew is in the drawer with the utensils.”
“Got it.” I snapped out of frozen disbelief and went to work on the bottle of Merlot. “What are we having?”
“Lobster carbonara,” he said in his delicious Italian accent, never taking his eyes off his work.
My stomach clenched, and I winced. This is why I avoided eating with others unless I was in a restaurant where I could order my own meal. Having to explain that I couldn’t eat whatever it was the person had so thoughtfully prepared went beyond embarrassing and straight to mortifying.
“How fancy,” I mumbled, dreading the awkward moment when I’d have to tell him I couldn’t eat cream sauce.
He huffed and set the pancetta aside. “We live in Boston, Siobhán. Lobster costs the same as chicken.” He grabbed the shallots and started peeling. “And it’s more flavorful. Gina used to make this a lot before we moved to Italy.”
“I—uh…” God, this was torture. “So, um… I can’t eat?—”
“Do you trust me?” He stopped his knife and looked over his shoulder.
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
He set the knife down, wiped his hands on a towel, and plucked two containers off the counter. He stepped to where I stood poised with the wine and held them out, showing me their labels.
“Cashew Cream,” I read in awe. “Vegan Parmesan Cheese.” A bright warm light spread out from my heart and the bliss-filled grin I’d been holding back finally broke free. I looked up from the containers into one of Luca’s rare smiles that showed his teeth and reached his eyes. “How did you…”
He went back to the counter and resumed dicing. “After last night, I figured we could both use some comfort food. Lobster carbonara tastes like home to me. Takes me right back to the North End, sitting in the kitchen watching Mamma Gina make dinner. I googled your”—he waved his knife through the air—“conditions over lunch. Figured out what I needed to make this happen. Et voilà!”
Tears pricked my eyes. He had his back to me, but I faced the island anyway to dab them with the back of my sleeve. “Thank you,” I said hurriedly and poured the wine. “That was really thoughtful.” My voice caught, and I cleared my throat.
“No worries. It was easy.”
“No,” I said with more vehemence than I’d intended. “No, it’s not.” I handed him a glass, and he must have noticed the steel in my voice, because he set his knife down and studied me, eyebrows drawn together. “It’s a burden. On everyone, and they never forget to remind me.” I held up my glass. “Sláinte.”
“Salute.”
Light. Fruity. “Delicious. Thank you.”
“Like I said—easy. Hand me that pasta, will you?”
I grabbed the spaghetti off the island and handed it to him.
He set it on the counter, placed a big pot in the sink, and turned on the faucet. He leaned back and folded his arms. “And, for the record, it’s not a burden. Not in the slightest.”
I huffed. “I should revise that statement. It’s only a burden when they actually remember I have dietary restrictions. Most of the time it’s, ‘Oh, right, Vahnie, you can’t eat that, can you? Sorry. Here’s some bread.’”
I sipped my wine, but the bitterness lingered. “Do you know what it’s like preparing food you can’t eat? Especially when the people you’re preparing it for regularly and conveniently forgot about your lactose intolerance as a kid? The number of times I ate a mouthful of mashed potatoes only to spit it back out because it was filled with butter and sour cream… And that was before my stomach got ripped to shreds.”
Luca’s face darkened into a scowl. He turned off the water, took the pot out of the sink, and set it on the stove.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all riled up. I don’t usually talk about this, and it’s kind of a hot button issue for me.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Your mother is the one who needs to apologize.”
“No, it’s fine.” I walked around the island and hopped up on a barstool. “She did the best she could with what she had. Da and Rory were the priority. It’s how she was raised. And—” I caught myself.
“And what?” He eyed me over the rim of his wine glass.
The trees beyond the deck were budding. Some of them had even sprouted leaves. They rustled in the early evening breeze off the pond. There was a freshness there, so many new beginnings. Maybe that’s what was happening between me and Luca. Maybe we were turning over a new leaf. Maybe if I trusted him, he might learn to trust me.
But trusting men went against every lesson I’d learned. Don’t be vulnerable, you’ll only get hurt. Protect yourself, because no one else is looking out for Siobhán but Siobhán.
Then again, no man had ever taken me grocery shopping or researched my conditions or attempted to make me dinner. The same man had also crushed my heart. Multiple times.
The cashew cream and vegan parmesan cheese stared back at me from the counter. Maybe things were different this time.
“It’s not just my mam. Or the food. It’s—” I waved a hand through the air. “It’s all the stuff underneath that gets me riled up.”
“I get that,” he said dryly.
The corner of my mouth lifted. If anyone understood layers of trauma, it was Luca. I tilted my glass and traced the rim of its base on the marble, swirling the wine inside as though the words I needed might materialize in its legs.
I knew why I stayed in Ireland so long, why I wanted to quit Terme and run away. Why I put on a strong front and made sure everyone knew I had my shit together and could take care of myself. But speaking that truth, sharing that part of myself with another person made it real, made me vulnerable. It’s why I never said it out loud before.
“I don’t feel safe,” I said quietly into my glass and raised my eyes.
Luca’s pouty lips pressed into a tight line of displeasure.
The water reached its boiling point. The ripples stole his attention, and he resumed dinner prep. Without those devastating eyes focused on me, my truth bubbled over. Apparently, I’d reached my boiling point as well.
“I haven’t felt safe since the shooting. But the men who shot me weren’t the only ones responsible. My family and the men in my life did the rest of the damage.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder, hostile and protective, then tossed the diced shallots into the saucepan. They sizzled in the hot oil.
“Life went on. No one thought to treat my trauma. Mam wanted to pretend like nothing happened. Talking about it meant admitting her family was the cause. So she went about her business as if nothing had changed. Kept cooking the meals she’d always cooked, refusing to acknowledge I couldn’t eat half the things she prepared. Eating was a nightmare, but the actual nightmares were worse.”
Luca’s penetrating stare drew my eyes up from my wine. His burned with understanding, an empathy that only came from shared experience. I didn’t know his demons, but I knew what it was like for them to keep you up at night.
“I lost all sense of safety, inside my house and out. If I ate the wrong thing, I was miserable for hours, sometimes days. I became scared of food. If I left my house, who knew what might happen. Southie felt like a warzone. Walking to school meant risking my life. I was terrified to leave my house. And no one cared. The only person I trusted after that was myself. So I left.”
“You might as well not have had a family,” he said with a bitter edge and took the pot off the stove.
He poured the boiling water and noodles into the colander. A mushroom cloud of steam erupted from the sink. On the stove, the sauce simmered and grew fragrant. My defective stomach rumbled with hunger.
“Why did you come back?” he asked. “After all that time.”
I shrugged. “Mam’s hip surgery. Da’s dementia. Someone had to take care of them.”
His forehead scrunched, and with a disapproving shake of his head, he added the pasta to the pan.
A wry smile captured my lips. “Italians don’t have the corner on macho, alpha-male attitudes, you know.”
He snorted and turned the noodles over in the sauce.
“Rory—my brother—he wasn’t about to take responsibility. God forbid anyone ask the prince to help out around the house. And Ciarán…” I sighed. “In all the years I lived in Ireland, Ciarán was the only person who visited. But he wasn’t going to take care of my parents. He’s the boss, and a boss shouldn’t have to worry about things like that. He offered to hire someone, but…” I shook my head. “I couldn’t do that to them.”
“So you came back.”
“So I came back. And unknowingly landed a job with an Italian Mafia don.”
He snorted and placed steaming plates of lobster carbonara on the island. “He wasn’t a don when you started working for him.”
I shoved my nose into the steam, closed my eyes, and breathed in the savory aroma. “This smells amazing.”
“I know,” he said atop the rattle of the utensil drawer.
I huffed. “I mean, I didn’t know he was connected at all, not until you took me upstairs at Vesuvio. It took me a few days to piece together your names with what I heard growing up. The next week, Marco called me into his office and told me that whatever conclusions I’d drawn, I should forget them. That he wasn’t involved, and he kept his distance.”
He placed cloth napkins and utensils next to our plates.
“He also reminded me of the NDA I signed when I started,” I added dryly.
Luca chuckled. “Him and those NDAs…” He sat next to me and lifted his glass. “Buon appetito.”
I clinked my glass against his. We drank and dove into our meals.
“Oh my god,” I groaned with the first mouthful, and my eyes rolled back. “You really can cook.”
“Told ya.” He took a bite, and his eyebrows drew together in concentration as he chewed. “I was skeptical about the substitutions.”
“Most people are, but it’s not bad, right?”
He stabbed a piece of lobster and twirled spaghetti onto his fork. “Not bad at all. It’s different, but I’d eat it again.” He shoveled the tremendous bite into his mouth.
“Thank you.” I sipped my wine, needing to hide the emotion clogging my throat.
“It was nothing,” he said through the mouthful. “I don’t get to cook very often. It was a great excuse to dust off the old pots and pans.”
“No, I mean, for taking the time to…” I frowned, looking for words in my plate. “To accommodate my…” I waved my fork through the air. “My whole deal.”
“Accommodate?” He set his napkin on the counter. “I already told you—it’s not a burden.”
“It feels like a burden. Even to me sometimes. You’re the first person who’s taken the time to do something like this, so, thank you.”
He examined me a moment longer.
“Shouldn’t we get our story straight about what happened last night?” I asked, desperate to change the subject.
“I thought that’s what we were doing.” He waggled his eyebrows.
I laughed and swatted him on the arm despite the heat creeping up my neck and pooling between my thighs. “You know what I mean. When you got home. When you left in the morning. That kind of thing.”
He narrowed his eyes, finished chewing, and pointed at me with his fork. “Ten p.m. You were here the entire time—I’ll let the girls know—and I left to meet Vito in Framingham at the jail at eight-thirty.”
I frowned. “Why did you go to the jail? What happened last night? Is Dominic okay?”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “You grew up in this world. You know better than to ask those kinds of questions. You want to be an accessory after the fact?” He brought his wine to his lips and raised his eyebrows.
“No,” I said sullenly and stabbed a piece of lobster. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around this stuff on a day-to-day basis.” I twirled my fork in the creamy spaghetti. “I’m just worried about Dominic.”
“Dom’s fine. I stopped by to see him before my meetings this afternoon. He’s a little grumpy,” he said with a comforting smile, “but I promise—he’s fine.”
I believed him, but an uneasiness nagged at my nerves. A quiet warning that said, get out! Stay away from this man and run far, far away!
Dominic might be okay, but he’d been shot, someone was in jail, and the FBI had shown up at Luca’s door. Each of those events in and of themselves should have been enough to make me redouble my efforts at escape or at the very least resolve to buy the first ticket out of Boston as soon as he let me go. But the moment Luca crossed that final line, the moment he touched me, every instinct telling me to run vanished.
I had no idea what any of this meant—probably nothing—but this thing between us, this force driving us together despite everything working against us, wouldn’t allow me to pull back. Never mind our enemy families. Never mind his macho, playboy antics. Never mind his dark vendetta. I wanted Luca Moretti even if he seemed determined to destroy us both.
“Don’t you ever get sick of those old movies?” he asked.
“Hm?”
“Those old movies you watch. Seems like every time I walk past the living room, you’re watching a movie from before either of us was born.”
“Way older than that, actually,” I said and took a bite of pasta.
“Don’t you get tired of watching the same things over and over again?”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t you get tired of eating pasta?”
He glared at me, and I stuck the tip of my tongue between my teeth. His eyes lingered on my mouth, and damn if that one look didn’t send heat straight to my core.
I cleared my throat. “In all seriousness, no. They’re a comfort. Like old friends. I started watching them as a kid. Da brought home a VHS player—probably lifted.” I shot Luca a knowing look. He let out a snort and nodded, no doubt familiar with new electronics magically appearing in his home growing up. “Mam was watching Double Indemnity one night. Rented it from the local Blockbuster. Remember those?”
“Not really. I mean, I know what they are, but we’d moved to Italy by then.”
“Ah, yeah. Well, that movie blew my mind. Barbara Stanwyck was a force—fierce and independent. Vicious. And the plot? Whew! That movie still holds water, and it came out eighty years ago, can you believe that?”
“Never seen it.”
I slow-turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
“Cosa?”
“We need to remedy this situation immediately.”
He chuckled.
“Seriously. This is an egregious oversight.”
He held up a hand. “All right, all right. I’ll watch it.”
“Okay.” I turned back to my plate. “Just wanted to make sure.”
He chuckled again and shook his head. “You really love that movie, huh?”
“It’s what introduced me to Old Hollywood, and I’ve been hooked ever since. The movies, the aesthetic, the fashion.”
“I’d always wondered how you settled on your style.”
“Now you know.”
“It suits you,” he said, and his shy smile surprised me.
“Thank you.”
I twirled more pasta onto my fork and thought back to high school and how I’d taught myself pin curls. I’d even kept a notebook filled with ideas for my dream house once I finally got out of Southie.
“I think it was a way for me to escape, especially after the shooting. A way to create a world around me that was so different and far away from everything I knew and saw in the real world. Like I said, a comfort.”
“Like my violin.”
I met his eyes. “Like your violin.”
He nodded.
Halfway through my plate, I reached my stomach’s limits and had to stop. Anything more and I’d cross the line into problem territory.
I tossed my napkin on the counter, and Luca shoveled another huge bite into his mouth. He turned his fork through his dish, and his forearm flexed, biceps bulging from the bend in his elbow. I tore my eyes away from his muscles. The wolf had wrapped himself in sheep’s clothing, and like a fool, I ignored my better judgment and embraced his softer side.
“That was delicious,” I said. “I don’t get to eat dishes like this unless I go to a vegan restaurant, and with my schedule, I rarely have the time.”
He pointed at my plate with his fork. “You going to eat that?”
I laughed. “No, I’m stuffed. Go for it.”
He pushed his empty plate aside and slid mine in front of him. “You know,” he said and twirled pasta onto his fork, “you don’t have to quit. Marco keeps his business ventures separate. You’re safe there.”
I stood on the footrest and reached across the island to grab the wine. I poured a splash into my glass, swirled it, and drank.
“Trust me, I don’t want to quit. I love my job, and in terms of my career, I’m at the top of my game. Did you know, out of the handful of Michelin Three Key hotels in the US, Terme di Boston is the only one that has a woman for a General Manager?”
His head snapped up, and he stopped chewing. “No, I didn’t,” he said through his mouthful.
“Surprising in 2024, but true. The next closest Three Key is in New York City, and that’s too far from my parents, so…” I tossed back the rest of my wine, maudlin and resentful about what I’d given up because of my family. “Anyway, I do need to quit. I’m not safe there, Luca, and you know it.”
“I don’t know that.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m sitting here because of who I am. The secret’s out. I’m a Shaughnessy. It’s only a matter of time before someone takes advantage of that and I’m thrust into another situation like the one at Vesuvio or last night or”—I craned my neck and gave him an accusatory look—“at the Tobin Bridge.”
He winced.
“I can’t handle the stress. My stomach can’t handle the stress. I don’t want to live my life constantly looking over my shoulder. It nearly killed me before I moved to Ireland. I can’t live like that again. I won’t.”
“The only people who know are Marco and Vinnie. Well, and Vito. And probably Gio too, but they’re consiglieri. It’s their job to keep their mouths shut. And me. Your secret is safe. Omertà isn’t just a word. It’s an oath. It has teeth.”
“And Anna. And Gina.” I shook my head. “Look, I’m not saying any of those people are trying to cause trouble on purpose, but this is how it starts. It’s already spread too far. Not to mention, you don’t have to be involved to be hurt by this life. I didn’t get shot when I was sixteen because I was involved. I got shot because I was there . I don’t ever want to be there again.”
He wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin onto his empty plate. “I don’t know.” He stared into his wine, swirling it, then drained the glass and leaned back. “Seems to me you’ve been forced to accommodate everyone else—where you live, what you eat, where you work. Dio, even your accent.” His words were soft and distant. “Doesn’t seem fair.”
Didn’t I know it.
I stacked the empty plates and utensils and walked them over to the sink. “You of all people should know—life is nothing if not unfair. We’ve both had our share of shitty circumstances, Luca. You can’t stew in the past. I mean, you can, but that’s no way to live. All you can do is move forward and make choices to give yourself the best possible chance at happiness.”
“That’s not good enough. Not for me. And it shouldn’t be for you either.”
I shrugged. “It is what it is. I accepted my lot in life a long time ago.”
He got up, stretched his arms overhead, and yawned.
I surveyed the mess and Luca’s sleepy eyes. “Let me clean up, okay? You cooked, I’ll clean. That’s fair.”
He quirked a wry grin. “Using my words against me?”
“Damn straight. Seriously though, you had a long day. I, on the other hand, sat on the couch watching TV and reading People . I got this.”
His eyes darted around the kitchen. “Okay…” He licked his lips, and his face twisted with worry. “There’s paper towel under the sink. And disinfectant. And rags. Don’t be stingy with the disinfectant.” His breath quickened. “All the dirty rags need to go on top of the washing machine in the laundry room when you’re done. And make sure you get all the food chunks off the plates before you put them in the dishwasher. There’s no disposal unit in there, you know? The detergent is under the sink. Don’t forget to run it.”
He grabbed the back of his neck and surveyed the counters.
“Hey.” I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I know how to clean a kitchen, okay?”
“Sorry.” He closed his eyes through a deep breath. “I’m… particular when it comes to cleaning.”
I widened my eyes. “You don’t say!”
He let out a nervous chuckle.
I squeezed his hand again. “I got this. Trust me.”
He smiled, still wary but less so, and made for the stairs.
I got to work.
Three nights ago, Luca Moretti held me perched on the ledge of the Tobin Bridge, ready to sacrifice my life to exact his revenge. Now I was cleaning his kitchen. After he cooked dinner for me. After fucking me senseless. Talk about whiplash.
The entire fucked-up chain of events was par for the course with me and Luca. Our relationship had never been anything but incendiary. The only question was how long before it blew up in our faces.