Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
This is fucking torture.
It’s just been two hours since she settled in and I realize, I can't stay in this house, can't go upstairs and lie in that guest room knowing she's down the hall in my bed wearing my clothes.
The couch is fine. I've slept in worse places, on warehouse floors and in the cramped backseats of surveillance cars. But I'm not tired. It's barely past eight and my mind won't fucking shut off, won't stop replaying every single moment from tonight.
Upstairs, the floorboards creak as she moves around.
“Fuck it.” I grunt, push off the couch and move to the kitchen, needing something to occupy my mind before I do something stupid like go upstairs and check on her again.
The house is always stocked for situations exactly like this.
Emergency protocols. I open cabinets to check inventory: canned goods, pasta, rice, everything we need for a week or more.
My hands find the rigatoni before my brain catches up.
The good kind, with ridges that catch sauce. San Marzano tomatoes. Garlic. Olive oil.
Pasta all'Arrabbiata.
I stare at the ingredients lined up on the counter and know this is stupid, know I should make something simple. Something that doesn't scream I've memorized every detail about you and I know this is your favorite meal even though we haven't had a real conversation in four years.
But my hands are already moving, pulling out the cutting board and knife, reaching for the pan, because I need something to focus on.
The garlic goes in first. Sliced thin and dropped into hot olive oil where it sizzles immediately, the smell filling the kitchen sharp and pungent in a way that grounds me.
I let it turn golden but not brown, never brown, because she likes it just right even if she'd never admit she cares about details like that.
The tomatoes next. I crush them by hand, feeling the flesh give way under my fingers before I throw them into the pan where they sizzle and pop against the hot oil.
I add salt and red pepper flakes. Just a pinch, not too much.
She doesn't like it too spicy even though she pretends she can handle anything.
The pasta goes into boiling water and I set the timer for twelve minutes, already stirring the sauce when I hear her footsteps on the stairs, slow and hesitant, like she's not sure she should be coming down here.
I don't turn around. Just keep stirring, focusing on the movements, because if I look at her I'm going to lose what little control I have left.
"You're cooking."
Her voice is still rough and tired from everything tonight put her through.
I nod. “Couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
She moves into the kitchen and I hear her bare feet on the tile. A soft sound that shouldn't affect me as much as it does. She stops somewhere behind me, close enough that I can feel her presence like heat radiating across the space between us.
"Smells good. What are you making?"
"Pasta."
"I can see that. What kind?" I can hear her eyes rolling and it makes my lips twitch.
"Arrabbiata."
Silence.
I glance back and immediately regret it because she's standing by the table still in my clothes, the shirt hanging off one shoulder to show her collarbone, the sweatpants rolled so many times they're bunched at her waist. Her hair's dry now and falls dark and smooth down her back, catching the kitchen light in a way that makes my hands tighten on the spoon.
She's staring at me with an expression I can't read. Something between surprise and suspicion, and it makes my chest feel tight.
"That's my favorite."
I know.
"Good timing then." I hum absent mindedly and turn back to the sauce before she can read anything on my face.
"How did you know?"
"I didn't. It's what was in the cabinet."
It's a lie and we both know it. I could make twenty different things with what's in these cabinets, could pull together a dozen meals without thinking. But she doesn't need to know that I watched a chef make it once and memorized every movement until I could recreate it perfectly.
She moves closer and leans against the counter, watching me work with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier, and the silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut.
"Can I help?"
"No."
"I could—"
"I've got it."
She's quiet for a moment and I think maybe she'll let it go, but then: "You're doing it wrong though."
I look at her. "What?"
"The garlic. You're supposed to use whole cloves, smash them, not slice them."
I return to my cooking. "This way's fine."
"It's not traditional."
"You want traditional, go to Italy."
"I'm just saying." She crosses her arms and the movement makes my shirt pull tight across her chest in a way that's going to kill me. "If you're going to make it, make it right."
There she is. The sarcasm, the sharp edges, the challenge in her voice that I can actually handle because this I know how to navigate.
"You want to take over, Princess?"
"No. I want to criticize from over here. It's more fun."
The corner of my mouth twitches again but I force it down before she can see, focusing on the sauce instead of the way she's looking at me like she's trying to figure out a puzzle.
"Glad I could entertain you." The words come out dry, almost bored. "So I guess you're not eating."
"I didn't say that."
I drain the pasta and toss it with the sauce, watching steam rise between us to fill the space with the smell of tomatoes and garlic and something that feels dangerously close to normal.
Like we do this all the time, like she belongs here in my kitchen making fun of my cooking, like the last four years of silence and distance never happened.
I plate two portions and slide one across the counter to her, watching as she looks at it, then at me, then back at the pasta like she's trying to solve some equation that doesn't add up.
"I’m finding it hard to believe you actually made me dinner."
"You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat."
She picks up the fork and I can see the hesitation in her eyes. The way she's second-guessing everything, wondering what this means, trying to figure out my angle. She finally twirls the pasta and brings it to her mouth.
She chews slowly and her eyes close in pleasure.
"Oh my god."
"What?"
"This is—" She takes another bite, chews, swallows, and I watch her throat work in a way that's completely inappropriate. "This is exactly like I remember."
Because I made sure it would be. Because I've been perfecting this recipe for seven years just in case I ever got the chance to make it for you again.
"Good."
"Where did you learn to cook like this?"
Nowhere. Everywhere. I taught myself because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn't thinking about you, needed some way to feel close to you when I was trying so hard to stay away.
"Picked it up."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting. Eat."
She rolls her eyes but keeps eating, and I watch her for a second longer than I should. The way she closes her eyes because it tastes good. The way her shoulders relax for the first time all night. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat that goes straight to my dick.
Like pleasure. Like relief.
I look away and focus on my own plate, which turns out to be impossible when she's sitting three feet away making those sounds that are systematically destroying what's left of my self-control.
We eat in silence. The only sound is our forks on the plates and her quiet noises of appreciation that I'm going to be hearing in my head for days.
"I love this," she says softly.
I know. You used to eat it every week when, drove Matteo insane with your obsession. Matteo complained constantly.
"It's just pasta."
"No." She sets her fork down and looks at me. Really looks at me, in a way that makes me feel exposed. "I mean—there was this place in Little Italy when I was younger. They made it exactly like this. I went every week for months."
"Matteo mentioned it.” I keep my voice neutral.
"He did?" She looks surprised, her eyebrows lifting in a way that's almost vulnerable. "He used to get so annoyed with me. Said I was wasting my time going to the same restaurant over and over."
"He talks, I listen. It's not a big deal."
"About me?"
"About everything."
She studies me. Closely and carefully like she's trying to read something I'm not saying, trying to find the truth I'm hiding. Then she picks up her fork again and continues eating.
The silence gets heavier, more charged, like the air before lightning strikes.
I finish my pasta and bring my plate to the sink, aware of every movement when she follows and sets hers beside mine, aware of how we're standing too close, how the kitchen suddenly feels too small for both of us.
"Enzo?"
I hum. Low in my throat.
"Those men tonight." Her voice is quiet and controlled in that way that means she's anything but. "The ones you killed. Do you know who they were?"
"O'Rourke's men."
"I know that. But did you recognize any of them?"
"No."
"So, you don't know if any of them were—" She stops, can't finish, and I know exactly what she's asking.
If any of them were in that basement nine years ago. If any of them touched her. If any of them are the reason she still flinches when men get too close.
"No. I don't know." They’re not. I brutally killed all the people there apart from the main fucking perpetrator and I still regret not having done it.
She nods and wraps her arms around herself. "Okay."
Silence stretches between us. Heavy with everything we're not saying, thick with all the questions she's not asking and all the answers I'm not giving.
She's not looking at me anymore, just staring at the counter with her jaw tight and her hands gripping her elbows too hard, and I can see her building those walls back up brick by brick.
"Isabella—"
"Look. Off topic but if we're staying here for days, we need to at least talk normally."
"We are talking normally."
"No." She looks up and there's fire in her eyes now. "We're being weird. Awkward. Like we're strangers. And I can't—" She stops, takes a breath. "I can't do this for days. It's going to drive me insane."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Act normal. Have a conversation. Stop being so—" She gestures at me, frustrated. "So cold and distant and whatever this is."
If she only knew how much effort it takes to stand three feet away from her, how hard I'm fighting not to close the distance and put my hands on her, how every second in this kitchen is a test of my self-control.
"I'm just doing my job."
"Your job is to keep me safe. Not to treat me like I'm contagious."
"I'm not—"
"You are." Her voice cracks. Just slightly, just enough that I hear it and it cuts right through me. "You're acting like you can barely stand to be in the same room as me. Like I'm—I don't know. Repulsive or something."
What?!
"That's not—"
"Then what is it?" She steps closer and I can smell my soap on her skin, the pulse racing in her throat. "Because I can handle a lot of things, Enzo. I can handle being hunted. Being scared. Being stuck in the middle of nowhere. But I can't handle you looking at me like that. With disgust."
"You think that's what this is?"
"What else am I supposed to think?"
"That I'm trying to keep my distance because if I don't, I'm going to do something we'll both regret." The words come out hard and harsh and I watch them land, too late to take them back. Watch her eyes widen, her breath catching in her throat.
"W-What?"
Fuck. I shouldn't have said that.
"You think I find you repulsive?"
"I—"
"You think I can barely stand to be near you?"
"You act like—"
"The last thing I feel when I look at you is repulsed." The words come out rough and raw like they're being ripped from somewhere deep. "The absolute last fucking thing. You understand?"
Her breath catches and I watch her process this, watch her trying to figure out what I'm saying, what I'm not saying.
"Then what do you—"
I stand up fast, the chair scraping against the floor with a sound that cuts through the moment.
"I'll clean up."
"Enzo—"
I grab both our plates and turn on the water so the sound fills the silence.
I hear her behind me. Standing there, waiting for me to turn around, to explain, to finish what I started.
I keep my hands in the water, start scrubbing a plate that's already clean, keep my back to her because if I turn around I'm going to break.
"Enzo."
"You should get some rest."
Silence.
Then footsteps. Not toward the stairs like I expected. Toward the front door.
I hear it open, hear it close softly, and I set the plate down hard enough that it cracks against the sink.
She went outside.
To the porch.
The same porch where she stood four years ago in front of me in a white sundress and told me she had feelings for me, where I looked into those hazel eyes and lied through my teeth, where I called her pathetic and embarrassing and broke her heart because I thought I was saving her.
I dry my hands and move to the window where I can see her sitting on the top step with her knees pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, staring out at the darkness like it might have answers.
I should leave her alone, should give her space, should let her sit out there in the cold and think about anything except me.
But I can't stop watching her, can't stop remembering how she looked that night. Eighteen and so sure of what she wanted, so sure I wanted it too.
She was right.
She's still right.
And I'm still the same coward who pushed her away.