Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Basili
I’m chopping garlic when I hear soft footsteps coming from the hallway. Chloe appears in the doorway a moment later, barefoot and wide-eyed, as she comes to an abrupt stop when she sees me.
“Are you just going to stand there gawking, or are you going to come in?” I ask without turning around.
She is startled. “I… Sorry, I was just expecting Maria.”
“Maria has the night off.” I glance over my shoulder, unable to express a small smile at her bewildered expression. “Come in. I won’t bite.”
Then my thoughts wander, and my grin turns flirtatious. “Hard.”
I see the blush that graces her cheeks as she moves into the kitchen slowly, hesitantly, like she’s approaching a wild animal. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder, her hair piled on the top of her head in a messy knot that makes her look even younger.
“You cook?”
“Occasionally, I try to insist that Maria have a life outside of this house. She doesn’t spend enough time with her children or her grandchildren, for that matter.
” I turn back to the sauce, adjusting the heat.
It’s my mother’s recipe— ground beef, pig's feet, tomato paste, and a few other secret ingredients.
“My mother taught me. She was determined that no son of hers would be helpless in the kitchen.”
The memory is bittersweet. She’s been gone for five years now, but I can still hear her voice scolding me for adding too much salt.
“What are you making?” She asks as she peers over my shoulder.
“Spaghetti.” I gesture to the counter beside the stove, then move more directly. “It’s comfort food. Come, keep my company.”
I reach for her, hands on her waist, and lift her onto the counter’s edge. She makes a small squeak of surprise that goes straight to my groin.
“There,” I say, forcing myself to step back and focus on the pasta. “Where’s Emmanuel?”
“He’s asleep. Exhausted from swimming all afternoon.”
I taste the sauce — it needs more seasoning. “Let him sleep until dinner’s done.”
She stays, perched on my counter like some kind of domestic fantasy I didn’t know I had. Barefoot in the kitchen, watching me cook, her legs swinging slightly as she gets more comfortable.
I feel myself relax as she watches. For the first time in twenty-four hours, I find that I’m at ease. I’ve been thinking about yesterday’s interrogation all day. Dimitri’s words haunt me. My hands are still bruised from beating him bloody because he dared to mention her.
My thoughts wander back to the blanket fort, her falling asleep on my chest, and about how right it felt to hold her like that.
“I need to thank you.” The words come out rougher than I intend.
“For what?” She asks with genuine surprise.
“For being right.” I focus on draining the pasta, unable to look at her while admitting this.
“About Emmanuel. He needed someone familiar to feel safe and stable, even coming back to his home, and I was too angry to see it. Too focused on getting him back to consider what he would actually need when he got here.”
We’re both silent for a long moment. When I risk a glance at her, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.
“You were scared,” she says finally. “Any good parent would have been in your position.”
“Scared, that’s one word for it.” The word feels foreign on my tongue. Dons aren’t supposed to get scared. But with her, I don’t feel like I have to pretend. “I was terrified. And I took it out on you.”
“That’s putting it mildly. You put a gun to my head.”
I wince. Ya, I did. The memory of that night at the orphanage makes my stomach turn. The fear I’d seen in her eyes as I’d pressed the barrel to her skull. The way she’d still stood her ground.
“I’m not proud of that.”
“Why not? It was macho, very intimidating. Isn’t that sort of your thing?”
There’s a teasing note in her voice that catches me off guard. She’s smiling slightly when I look at her, and I realize she’s trying to lighten the mood.
“I was an ass when I should have been grateful.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Her smile fades a little. “It’s in the past, Basili. Can we just move past that?”
I nod. Refocusing on stirring the sauce, it’s hard for me to swallow how forgiving she’s being right now. “Sure.”
“What does that look like?” She asks, “Moving forward?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
Liar. I know exactly what I want it to look like. Around her. In her. With her. But admitting that would be like jumping off a cliff, knowing there’s no water to catch me below.
I turn off the heat and put a lid over the sauce. Then move to the cabinet to pull out pasta now that the second pot, the one filled with water, is boiling.
“Where did you learn to fight?” I ask, changing the subject, hoping to find safer ground. “I mean, really learn. Your skills are beyond basic self-defense. Jiu jitsu? Krav maga, maybe? Better yet, why?”
She pulls her knees up, feet resting on the lip of the counter as she folds into herself. Visibly trying to make herself smaller as she wraps her arms around her legs. Defensive.
“Why do you keep asking me that?”
“I can’t be genuinely curious? It isn’t every day I meet someone able to take me to the mat,” I admit, risking giving her a small smirk, “especially a woman half my size. It’s impressive, Chloe.”
“I ran away from home when I was sixteen.” Her voice is careful, controlled, cautious. “I ended up at the orphanage. Jay took me in and started teaching me.”
My hand stills on the bag of pasta. Sixteen. She’d been just a child.
“Why did you run away?”
“Staying would have gotten me killed. One way or another,” she admits in a quiet voice. Her eyes are downcast, examining the floor.
The matter-of-fact way she says it makes rage rise in my chest. It was obvious now that someone had hurt her. Someone had hurt her enough to make her feel that running for her life was her only option.
“Who were you running from?” I force calm that I don’t feel into my voice as I ask the question through clenched teeth.
“My father.” There’s venom in her voice now. “He despised me. I was never good enough. Never what he wanted. And he made sure I knew it.”
I abandon the pasta completely, moving to stand in front of her. Placing a hand on each side of her on the counter, placing my chin on the top of her knees, looking up at her. I need to see her face. Searching for answers to what she’s not saying.
Her eyes search mine for a moment, sighing deeply before continuing. “When I got to the orphanage, I was shy, scared. Weak. An easy target. Jay knew I needed a way to find confidence in myself, so he started to train me himself. Then sent me to his friend Marcus, who teaches MMA.”
“How long did you train?”
“Two years, give or take. Until I had to get a job to help Jay with expenses, I chose to stay on at the orphanage. He continued to help me stay in shape even after that.” She shrugs it off, like none of it matters, but I can see the regret in the line of her shoulders.
“But I learned enough to protect myself if I ever needed to.”
Enough to throw Raffaello on his ass. I think back on that night at the orphanage again, then to the day in the gym. Enough to surprise me.
Pride surges through me, mixed with fury at her father for making her feel that she needed those skills in the first place.
“Your father,” I say carefully, testing the waters, “where is he now?”
And just like that, the walls slam back up. I watch it happen — the way her expression closes, the way her body goes rigid. I lift my head from her knees, not letting her avoid my eyes, though she tries.
“I don’t know. And I don’t care.” The lie is obvious. “I haven’t seen him since I left.”
She’s lying or at least not telling me the whole truth. The question is why?
“Chloe —”
“Your water is going to boil over.” She redirects my attention back to the stove, and she’s right, the water’s rolling higher and higher, ready to edge over the brim.
“Damn it.” I move to turn the flame down, contemplating her admission while I pour the dry pasta into the pot.
“Are you still afraid of him?” I ask quietly as I stir the pasta into the now simmering water.
“Every day.”
The raw emotion in her voice makes my chest tighten. I set down the wooden spoon that I’d used to stir the pasta and move back to her, my hands resting on either side of her legs. Caging her gently.
“You’re safe here, Chloe. Whatever you’ve been running from, whoever hurt you— they can’t reach you here.” I mean it. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll burn the damn world down to make sure it’s the truth.
“Basili, you don’t understand. I—”
“I know you’re keeping secrets; you’re possibly the worst liar I’ve ever met.” I keep my voice gentle and smile at her softly. “I know there’s more to the story than you’re telling me. It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything. But I owe you everything. You brought my child back to me.”
Her eyes get hazy with unshed tears, and it takes everything in me not to pull her against my chest.
“Then why does it feel like I do?”
“Because you’re scared.” I lift one hand, unable to resist touching her anymore, cupping her face. “Whatever happened to you — it doesn’t change what you’ve done for my son. For me.”
She leans into my touch, just slightly, and that small gesture makes me want to give her everything. I don’t think, I just do, kissing her when I know I shouldn’t. Trying to draw her back to me from the dark place she’s retreated to.
I mean for it to be gentle. Comforting. A reassurance that she’s safe here in my home. But the moment my lips touch hers, and gently goes out the window.
She tastes like chocolate, sweet and warm, and I want more.
My hands slide from her face to her waist, pulling her to the edge of the counter, fitting myself between her thighs where I belong.
She gaps at the new position, and I take advantage, deepening the kiss until I can feel her melting against me.