Page 80 of Twisted Vows

“Go get ready then.”

She beams and disappears upstairs to “freshen up,” leaving me in the kitchen with a smile I can’t seem to shake.

She’s not glass.

She’s steel.

Time to stop pretending otherwise.

I head out and prepare the car. Because of our experience on our last road trip, I check the under-the-seat Glock and secure the knife under the driver’s mat. Old habits to ensure I never get rusty.

She reappears in a simple dress with puffed shoulders that stops just above her knees, showing off smooth long legs that stutter my heartbeat.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

I raise an eyebrow.

She smiles. “Fine. But if this ends with a body in a trunk, you’re eating raw kale for dinner.”

“Deal.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, and a smile tugs at my mouth.

The drive is long. She chatters, and I answer in grunts, focused on traffic, escape routes, and the sight of her in my periphery. When she leans back, crosses her legs, and sighs, my eyes follow the path of her exposed thigh.

At her giggle, I glance up to find her watching me with a wide grin. I shake my head and return my attention to the road.

The place I’m taking her has mattered to me since childhood. It sits tucked between mirrored glass towers, the only brick building left standing on this street.

La Tavola Ricci.

The name glows in soft golden letters above the arch of carved stone. Old-world charm on the outside. Clean booths on the inside. It’s one of the few places in the city where family means pasta, not pistols. A Benedetti front that’s never been stained by blood or threats. Just boasts garlic, wine, and legacy.

I cut the engine. She looks at the building like it’s a church and she’s forgotten how to pray. Her big eyes swim with questions.

“This is it?” Suspicion laces her voice.

I shrug. “Not everything in my life has to be a battlefield.”

Her lips twitch, as if part of her desperately wants to believe that statement.

Inside, the aroma hits us first. Basil, browned butter, wood smoke, and slow-simmered sauce. No other place in this city smells like this anymore. It’s the scent of Sunday dinners that stretched into Monday mornings.

Sophia wanders in behind me, her heels clicking on the tile. In her dress, she looks like an old movie star lost in a neighborhood trattoria. She stares at the decor with its exposed beams, family portraits, and hand-polished, wall-hung copper pans. Her fingers hover near the photos as if they might burn her upon contact.

I nod toward the central frame. “That one’s my nonno. He carried bricks by day and poured Chianti by night.”

Her gaze lingers. “He looks…kind.”

“He wasn’t,” I mutter, “but he made good meatballs.”

She laughs.

The maître d’, Luca, walks up to us, his long white hair tied in a man bun. After a long second of staring us down, he smiles. “Ragazzo,” he greets, clapping my shoulder and kissing my cheek. The man used to scold me for swiping biscotti as a kid. Now, he bows as if I’m a prince.