Chapter Twenty-One
Mia
I smile as the memory of this morning plays through my head.
I was sleeping, tucked beneath warm blankets, when Maverick leaned down and kissed my forehead, waking me up.
“Thank you, baby,” he whispered. “I love you.”
Then he was gone.
Quick as that.
But that’s okay. He needs to focus on whatever he’s doing, and I need to focus on drinking this coffee before waking up the girls.
Priorities matter.
“Never cared for American coffee, but you certainly seem to enjoy it.”
Laughing, I look over to find Stefano and Luca standing near the kitchen entrance.
Stefano has a knowing look in his eyes.
Luca is frowning at my coffee like it personally insulted his mother.
“What’s wrong with American coffee?” I ask, lifting my cup to my lips and taking a sip of the delicious nectar.
“It’s nothing more than watered-down bean juice,” Luca says. “Revolting.”
With a shudder, he turns and walks away.
Rude.
“There’s nothing wrong with my coffee,” I call after him.
He doesn’t turn around.
I look at Stefano. “Here, taste.”
His smile vanishes.
Now it’s his turn to frown.
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeats. “I’m on Luca’s side. American coffee is terrible.”
“I’ll have you know that without this American coffee, I’d be a very grumpy woman.”
“You would be?” he asks, far too innocently.
“Oh, bite me, Steffy. Like you’d know. You start your day with a shot.”
Laughing, he walks over to the overly complicated machine built into the counter and starts pushing buttons.
“It’s not a shot. It’s espresso.”
“It’s still a shot.”
“It’s Italian coffee,” he says. “I’ll make you a caffè macchiato. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“I don’t understand a single thing about the people in this estate,” I mutter around another sip of my delicious coffee. “Tiny shots for breakfast. Insanity.”
“It packs more punch than that entire cup of watered-down sadness in your hand,” Stefano says. “And it takes far less time to drink.”
“My cup of watered-down sadness is warm, loyal, and dependable.”
“It’s weak.”
I gasp. “Take that back.”
“I will not.”
“You are insulting an American institution.”
“I’m insulting hot bean water.”
“It has carried mothers through school mornings, grocery trips, laundry piles, and children who ask questions before sunrise. Show some respect.”
Stefano pauses with his little cup in hand.
Then he inclines his head.
“Fine. I respect its service.”
“Thank you.”
“But I question its flavor.”
“Still rude.”
He grins and slides a small cup toward me.
“Try.”
I eye it suspiciously. “Why is it so tiny?”
“Because it does not need to compensate.”
I point at him. “That joke was too good, and I hate that for both of us.”
His smile widens.
Sighing, I set my coffee down and pick up the tiny cup.
It smells strong and expensive.
I take a cautious sip. Then freeze.
Stefano watches me with the smug confidence of a man who already knows he won.
“Well?” he asks.
I slowly lower the cup.
“I hate you.”
His grin turns triumphant.
“It’s good, yes?”
“No.”
“Mia.”
“It’s very good,” I admit. “But I’m not emotionally ready to abandon my watered-down bean juice.”
“No one is asking you to abandon it.”
“You’re definitely asking me to abandon it.”
“I’m asking you to improve your life.”
Before I can answer, Livy appears in the doorway with her hair sticking up in every direction and Sabrina right behind her, rubbing one eye.
“Mama,” Livy mumbles, “why are you drinking doll coffee?”
Stefano places a hand over his heart.
I smile into my cup.
Finally.
Someone on my side.
“Mamma mia, questi americani sono impossibili,” Stefano mutters, taking his tiny cup from the counter.
Livy frowns up at him.
“Mama, why’s Uncle Steffy talking about taking quests?”
Stefano pauses with the cup halfway to his mouth.
Then he looks at me.
Then at Livy.
Then back at me again.
“Quests?” he repeats.
“That’s what you said.”
“No, piccola. I did not.”
“You said questy Americans.”
Sabrina giggles. “I heard it too. Even though I know he didn’t say that.”
Stefano closes his eyes for a second.
When he opens them, he looks personally wounded.
“That’s it,” he says. “I’m starting an Italian class.”
Livy perks up. “Do we get snacks?”
“You get knowledge.”
“So no snacks?”
“There will be snacks,” he says with a sigh. “But only because I can’t teach under these conditions.”
Livy looks at me. “Are we in trouble?”
“A little,” I say, hiding my smile behind my mug.
Stefano points at all three of us.
“You cannot be part of the Italian mafia if you don’t know our language.”
Livy sits up straighter.
“Hey, don’t point at me,” Sabrina says. “Papa teaches me every day.”
“We’re the mafia now?” Livy asks. “Don’t Mav and Mama have to marry first?”
I choke on my coffee.
“Oh, wait,” she continues, her little face lighting up. “I saw a video where the Don had to give his daughter to be a bride. Will I be a bride?”
Stefano freezes.
For once, he looks like he walked himself directly into a trap and has no idea how to get out.
I take a slow sip of my good old American coffee.
This should be good.
“Absolutely not.”
Maverick’s voice rolls into the kitchen from the doorway.
Every head turns.
He stands there in a dark suit, looking far too powerful for a conversation involving doll coffee, Italian lessons, and elementary-aged mafia membership.
Livy blinks at him.
“No bride?”
“No bride.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“What if I want to be one when I’m old?”
“When you’re old enough to make that decision for yourself, we’ll discuss it.”
Livy thinks about that. “How old?”
“Thirty.”
I cough again.
Stefano suddenly becomes very interested in his espresso.
Livy’s eyes widen. “Thirty?”
“Forty, if you keep asking questions before breakfast.”
“That seems unfair.”
“I’m comfortable with unfair.”
Sabrina raises her hand.
Maverick looks at her. “Yes, Sabrina?”
“Do I also have to wait until I’m forty?”
“Your papa and I will agree that yes, you too have to wait until you’re forty.”
Sabrina gasps.
Livy leans toward her and whispers, “That’s because he likes us.”
His mouth twitches, but he fights the smile like a man at war.
Then his gaze slides to Stefano.
My poor Steffy straightens.
“Really, Stefano?”
“What? I was making a point about language.”
Maverick stares at him, exhales, and walks farther into the kitchen. He comes straight to me, bends, and kisses the top of my head.
My chest warms instantly.
Then he turns to the girls.
“You are not brides. You are not mafia. You are children.”
Livy opens her mouth.
Maverick points at her.
“Dangerous children, perhaps. Clever children. Occasionally dramatic children. But children.”
Livy taps her finger against the table. “Can I still learn Italian?”
“Of course.”
“With snacks?”
Maverick looks at Stefano.
Stefano smiles. “Knowledge and snacks.”
“Fine,” Maverick says. “Italian class may proceed.”
Livy beams.
“But,” he adds, “no more videos about daughters being given as brides. It will never happen, piccola.”
Livy sighs. “Fine. But I had questions.”
“I know. That’s what concerns me. Always curious.”
“Girls, time for breakfast,” Rosa calls from the doorway. “Please join the other children in the garden.”
“Yes!” Sabrina jumps off her stool. “Outside breakfasts are my favorite.”
Without so much as a goodbye, the girls grab hands and hurry from the kitchen.
I stare after them. “Apparently I’ve been dismissed.”
“You were never in control,” Maverick says.
“Thank you for that reminder.”
His mouth twitches before he turns to Stefano.
“We’ll be meeting at Patch’s place in two hours,” Maverick tells his brother. “I sent the twins out to find someone. I hate to ask you again.”
“I’ll join you,” Stefano says immediately.
“I only need your ears,” Maverick explains. “You always know when people are lying, and when we bring Victor in, I want to know he speaks the truth. I won’t ask you to be part of anything else. I know you hate it.”
Something soft passes over Stefano’s face.
“I trust you, fratellino.” He sets his tiny cup in the sink. “I’ll go get ready and meet you in the foyer in thirty minutes.”
Maverick watches him leave.
“He’s too soft for this part of our lives,” Maverick says. “I wish like hell I had his ear so I didn’t have to ask him for this.”
“Really?” I ask. “He seems pretty sturdy to me. He’s your twin, after all.”
“Yeah.” Maverick sighs, reaching for my cup. “That’s why people always assume he’s either me or he’s like me.”
Before I realize what he’s doing, he takes a drink of my coffee and his entire face changes.
His brows draw together. His mouth tightens. Then he looks down into the mug like it personally betrayed him.
“What is this blasphemy?”
I gasp as he dumps my coffee into the sink.
“That was my morning elixir.”
“That was water with cream.”
I glare at him. “What is it with you Moretti men making my coffee feel bad for simply existing?”
“It has feelings?” he asks, arching a single eyebrow.
I am way too frustrated to acknowledge how sexy that is.
Mostly.
“Back to Stefano,” I say, pulling stuff out to make another coffee. “You said people assume he’s like you.”
“He is gentle,” Maverick says. “Loving. Compassionate.”
“You’re all those things too,” I frown.
His expression softens.
“Yes, bella. With you. With Olivia. With the people I love.”
He steps closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels much smaller than it did a second ago, and I forget all about all things coffee.
“But I’m also hard where he’s soft. Stefano hates being in charge. He hates being ruthless, even when ruthlessness is necessary.” His thumb brushes along my jaw. “I thrive on it.”
I swallow.
Then, because I apparently enjoy flirting with danger, I smirk.
“Hard and ruthless, huh?”
His eyes darken.
“Careful, Amelia.”
“Oh, no.” I fold my arms. “You don’t get to dump my coffee and then tell me to be careful.”
“That was not coffee.”
I narrow my eyes. “You owe me a new cup.”
“I’ll make you something drinkable.”
“American coffee is drinkable.”
“Barely.”
His hand settles on my waist.
“I missed you this morning,” he says quietly.
All the teasing drains from me.
“I missed you, too.”
“I should have woken you properly.”
“You kissed my forehead,” I say, smiling.
“That was not properly.”
My cheeks heat, and he smiles like he sees every single thought that just crossed my mind.
“I have thirty minutes before I have to meet Stefano.”
“And?”
“And I intend to use at least three of them making you forget about that terrible coffee.”
Only three?
I almost say it, but I don’t.
Mostly because his mouth is already on mine.
He lifts me before I can form another thought, carrying me from his personal kitchen like I weigh nothing at all.
“Maverick,” I whisper against his lips.
He doesn’t answer.
He just kisses me again.
By the time he gets me back to our room, I’ve forgotten the coffee.
The kitchen.
The fact that there are armed men all over the estate.
For a little while, there’s only him.
His hands.
His mouth.
The way he makes me feel wanted in every place I was afraid I’d become too much.
And when Stefano finally sees his brother again, Maverick is ten minutes late.
Judging by the knowing smirk on Stefano’s face, he knows exactly why.