Chapter 18
Sophie
The lunch rush never materializes.
I stand at the pass-through window, watching Mr. Cavallari settle into his usual corner table as the afternoon light slants through the Arsenal’s tall windows. He looks frail in the light, a single elderly man with his newspaper and espresso.
One single elderly man. Just one.
I should be used to the emptiness by now. But today, with Vin’s praise still warming my heart, the silence feels heavier, more oppressive. Like maybe there’s more than these four walls.
“Sophia!” Mr. Cavallari’s voice carries across the empty dining room, rough but warm. “Come. Sit with me.”
I wipe my hands on my apron, the white cotton already marked with olive oil and tomato sauce. “I should prep for dinner service.”
“What dinner service?” He gestures at the empty tables with a gnarled hand, liver-spotted with a slight tremor. “Come. An old man wants company.”
The floorboards creak beneath my feet as Mr. Cavallari folds his newspaper with precision. His eyes, cloudy with age, fix on my face.
“Sit, figlia.” Daughter. He’s never called me that before.
I sink into the chair across from him. This close, I can see the neat way he’s knotted his tie, the careful shave job marred only by one missed patch under his jaw. A widower’s grooming.
“Mr. Cavallari—”
“Angelo.” He waves a dismissive hand. “After two years of keeping your restaurant alive, I think we can use first names, no?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You’re not keeping it alive. You’re a valued customer.”
“Sophia.” The way he says my name, the Italian way, with the long ‘i’ that makes it sound like a song, stops me.
“I am an old man who eats here twice a day because the food reminds me of my mamma’s kitchen in Napoli.
Because you cook with love, not just skill.
But we both know the math doesn’t work.”
My throat tightens. I look away, focusing on the menu chalkboard I update every morning with specials no one orders.
“I never had children,” he continues, his voice softening. “My Carmela, she couldn’t. We tried for years. Prayed to every saint. But God had other plans.” He pauses, and I hear him swallow. “If I’d had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be like you. Smart. Talented. Kind.”
The kindness in his words makes my eyes sting. “Angelo—”
“But I would also want her to know when to let go.” He reaches across the table, his weathered hand covering mine.
“This neighborhood, it’s dying, Sophia. The young people, they leave.
The old people like me, we’re all that’s left.
You’re pouring your heart into a place that can’t give back what you deserve. ”
I pull my hand away, defensive heat flaring across my skin. “The Arsenal is my dream.”
“A dream you have yet to make into a reality.” He leans back, studying me with those sharp eyes. “You have three Michelin star, and you hide here in a neighborhood where people think Olive Garden is fine dining.”
“I’m not hiding—”
“You are.” His voice is gentle but firm. “And it’s time you go out there and show the world what you are made of. Live your life, Sophia. Fully.”
I don’t say anything, blushing, and looking down at my hands folded in my lap. He reaches over and clasps his hand over both of mine and pulls them onto the table.
“Do you know why I say this to you today?”
I shake my head, a lump in my throat.
“Something is different about you these past few days. Something is making you glow.”
Vin. My face flames, and he nods.
“I’m 73 years old, figlia. I know what a woman in love looks like.” Angelo’s expression turns wistful. “My Carmela used to get that same look when I’d come home from work. Like I hung the starts for her just by walking through the door.”
“I’m not—” But I can’t finish the lie. Because this morning, when Vin stood in my doorway saying he’d be back at 8pm with that look of his, I felt it in a real way. A permanent way.
“You deserve a family, Sophia.” Angelo’s voice roughens with emotion.
“Not just a restaurant that you pour yourself into until there’s nothing left.
Not just feeding others while you forget to feed yourself.
You deserve someone who looks at you the way you look at them.
Children, maybe. A home that’s more than a kitchen.
And a restaurant that fuels your heart and feeds your family financially not just with food. ”
The image blooms unbidden: Vin at a table, a real table and not my flimsy card table, with our children laughing beside him as he teaches them to knead dough with those massive hands.
It’s a dangerous thought for me, for my heart, a really stupid thought. Vin doesn’t do relationships. He said himself he’s going to marry for alliance, not love, keeping women on the side, never committing.
But then I remember the way he demands to wash dishes when I cook, how he watches documentaries in my bed, one hand behind his head, like he belongs there. And I remember the words he spoke in the middle of the night when he fucked my mouth: la mia regina. My queen.
What if…?
“The world is bigger than this neighborhood, figlia.” Angelo flicks open his newspaper. “Stop making yourself small. Let yourself be seen. Let yourself be loved.”
He dismisses me kindly by turning to his paper, and I swallow hard.
“Angelo?” My voice cracks.
He lifts his eyes over the paper, his bushy eyebrows raised.
“Thank you.”
He nods. “When you’re ready to really live, Sophia, the world will be waiting. And so will he.”
I head back to the kitchen to make Mr. Cavallari’s usual lunch order and let myself imagine it. Really imagine it.
Vin Demonio, who never fucks the same woman twice, tangled in my sheets two mornings in a row. Vin, who only fucks asses, buried deep in my pussy like he can’t get enough. Vin, who doesn’t do feelings, calling me his queen in the dark.
What if Angelo is right? What if I’ve been hiding? What if I’m stopping myself from going exactly where I’m meant to be? My heart hammers against my ribs.
Ever since the day my father went to Aurelio and pleaded for our lives, I’ve spent my whole life making myself small, safe, choosing simple over complicated.
But maybe, maybe, it’s time to stop hiding in a dying neighborhood with a failing restaurant. Maybe it’s time to let myself want more. Maybe it’s time to let myself want him.
I look around the Arsenal, at the exposed brick and vintage windows, at the empty tables and silent kitchen, and for the first time, I let myself wonder: what if a restaurant isn’t my only destiny? What if he is, too?
The thought should terrify me. Vin Demonio is everything my father warned me against. Violence and power and danger wrapped in muscle and that devastating smirk.
But when I close my eyes, I don’t see the mob boss or the player or the man who never commits. I see the way he looked at me this morning, the way he massages my scalp when I’m warming his cock in my mouth. The way he calls me mia regina.
I see a man who might, maybe, possibly, against all odds, be falling for me the same way I’m falling for him.
Suddenly, I can’t wait of for the day to be over, for me to get home and feed him crispy roasted chicken and watch his eyes roll back in his head.
I want to fall asleep with his cock in my mouth.
I want to wake up to him fucking my face while he thinks I’m sleeping.
I want him to stay. Not just tonight. Not just until he finds Aurelio and ends the war. I want him to stay.
The realization settles over me with a warmth I can physically feel: I’m in love with Vincenzo Demonio.
And for the first time in my life, I’m going to stop playing it safe. I’m going to fight for what I want. Even if what I want is a man who swears he’ll never be kept. Even if it breaks my heart.