Chapter Eleven #3
“Well, technically, we were taught to wait for il Don to start eating first,” another woman says from a few seats down. “But our Don isn’t typical.”
Maverick sighs.
She smiles at him, entirely unafraid. “He would never take care of his own needs before his family’s. Not even at the dinner table. So we eventually got him to agree to a release word, for lack of a better term.”
I glance at Maverick.
His plate is still untouched.
“Eat, bella,” he says, his mouth curving. “Rosa’s food is real authentic Italian. The best you will ever have.”
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask, nodding toward his plate.
“Once I see that everyone is eating, then I’ll enjoy mine.”
My chest squeezes.
“Maverick.”
“Don’t fight him,” someone says across the table. “The man does not play when it comes to family.”
“Or food,” Stefano adds.
Rosa, standing near the wall, lifts her chin. “Especially food.”
Livy gasps around a bite of pasta. “Mama, I love your spaghetti, but this is another world of delicious.”
“Good for one’s ego, that girl,” I mutter.
Laughter moves around the table.
Livy points her fork toward Rosa. “Can my mama have this recipe?”
“I’m afraid it’s a Moretti family secret,” Rosa tells her.
Livy considers that for half a second.
“What if we become part of the family?”
Every conversation at the table dies.
Slowly, every face turns toward me.
Then toward Maverick.
Who knew a person could blush this much without bursting into flames?
Maverick, the traitor, looks deeply pleased.
“Well then,” Rosa says, laughter in her voice, “that would be a completely different story. I would be obligated to share the secret.”
Livy nods like this is a business negotiation. “Good. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Olivia Marie,” I whisper.
“What? I’m planning for the future.”
Stefano lifts his glass. “A wise Don always does.”
“Don’t encourage her,” I say, turning to Livy. “You’re supposed to be on my team, daughter.”
Maverick leans closer, his voice low near my ear. “Too late, bella.”
I glance at him.
His eyes are warm.
Certain.
Far too dangerous.
“She’s already chosen her side.”
Deciding not to encourage him, I shove a mouthful of pasta into my mouth.
Then I look at Rosa in shock.
She gives me a silent chuckle and a knowing nod.
In my daughter’s words, this really is another-world delicious.
Maverick still hasn’t touched his food, and I’m about two seconds from butting in when Rosa and her staff move to a second, smaller table on the other side of the room.
They sit and start eating.
Only then does Maverick lean forward and pick up his fork.
Very politely.
Very calmly.
Very unfairly.
He uses only a fork, but somehow his pasta twists around it in one perfect little bundle, neat and obedient, before he lifts it to his mouth.
And eats it way too sensually.
I glance around the table and realize almost everyone else is doing the same thing.
Everyone except the children.
And me.
My noodles are not obedient.
My noodles are fighting for their lives.
“Is it an Italian law that the spaghetti noodles have to obey you while you eat them?” I ask.
Maverick pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.
Stefano’s shoulders start shaking.
I point at Maverick’s plate. “How are yours wrapped so cleanly around your fork while mine are hanging on for dear life? I’ve already gotten sauce on my shirt, and I’ve only taken one bite.”
Maverick reaches for his napkin, amusement warming his eyes. “May I?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you about to dab sauce off my shirt at a table full of people?”
“No.” His mouth curves. “I was going to teach you how to make the pasta behave.”
“Oh.” I look down at my plate. “Then yes. Please. I’m losing this fight.”
Stefano lifts his glass. “A brave woman admits when she has been bested by carbohydrates.”
“Number Two,” Livy says solemnly, “don’t make fun of Mama’s noodles. They’re trying their best.”
Stefano lowers his glass. “I deserved that.”
Maverick ignores him and picks up my fork.
Not his.
Mine.
The intimacy of that ridiculous little thing hits harder than it should.
He gathers a few strands of pasta, rests the tip of the fork against the curve of the plate, and turns it slowly. Once. Twice. A neat little bundle forms around the tines.
“Don’t rush it,” he says, his voice low beside me. “Let the pasta follow.”
My eyes flick to him.
That should not sound like seduction.
It does.
Across the table, Livy sighs. “Mama, you’re blushing again.”
“Eat your pasta, Olivia.”
“I am. Mine listens.”
I look to my daughter to find her sitting ramrod straight, chin high, twirling her fork through her pasta with great concentration.
She manages two careful bites.
Then she slouches back into her normal posture and shakes her head.
“Never mind. If I eat that slow, I’ll be old like Steffy before I finish.”
“I’m not old,” Stefano says, shock clear on his face. “And don’t call me Steffy.”
“It’s either Steffy or Number Two,” Livy says. “Take your pick.”
Stefano stares at her for a long moment.
Then he sighs. “Fine. Steffy it is.”
Around the table, everyone has fallen into their own conversations. No one pays them much attention.
Or me.
Or the fact that Maverick is holding a forkful of perfectly obedient pasta in front of my mouth.
I reach for the fork, but he pulls it slightly back.
My eyes snap to his.
“Open, bella,” he says softly.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to feed me at a table full of people.
I should refuse.
I should remind him that I’m a grown woman perfectly capable of feeding myself.
I should do a lot of things.
Instead, my mouth opens on its own.
Traitor.
Maverick slides the pasta between my lips with a slow, pleased smirk.
His gaze stays on my face as I chew. “Better?”
I swallow, trying to remember how words work. “Your noodles are better behaved than mine.”
“Of course.”
“That was not a compliment to you.”
His smile deepens. “I accept it anyway.”
Across the table, Livy gasps. “Mama, did he just feed you?”
I close my eyes.
Maverick doesn’t even look ashamed.
“Yes, I did,” he says.
Livy points her fork at him. “That’s dating behavior.”
Stefano lifts his glass. “Il Don has game.”
“Steffy,” I warn.
Livy beams. “See? It’s already catching on.”
“I do believe my daughter will be the downfall of your brother’s existence,” I say as Stefano sighs in acceptance when someone else calls him Steffy.
“Maybe so,” Maverick says. “But I believe you will be the downfall of mine.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound very good,” I say, looking down at my plate while trying to show the noodles who’s boss.
Unfortunately, it’s not me.
They’re staging a coup, slipping off my fork like they have somewhere better to be. I never saw an issue with it before. Pasta hangs off the fork. You slurp it into your mouth. It’s traditional.
But no one here slurps a single slurp.
“Quite the opposite, Amelia,” Maverick says.
He removes the fork from my hand, calm as anything, then twirls another perfect bite of pasta.
“For years, I have been impossible to move,” he says, his voice low enough for only me. “My world stayed exactly where I placed it. My rules. My order. My control.”
The fork pauses near my mouth.
“Then you walked in with tired eyes, stubborn pride, and a little girl with the bravery of a soldier and the confidence of a world leader.”
I press my lips together, fighting a smile.
His gaze softens.
“I’ve been stuck, Amelia,” he continues. “If a downfall is what it takes to get me moving again, I think I’ll survive it.”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“I’m Italian.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a perfect explanation.”
I laugh under my breath, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“Open,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips.
“This is becoming a habit.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not even sorry.”
“No.”
I should probably object.
Instead, I open my mouth.
Again.
“Perfect,” he breathes. “I think spaghetti is my new favorite meal.”
Yeah, big guy. Mine too.