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“Get out.”

The two of them exchange a look, some unspoken understanding passing between them. Marco pushes off the counter, grabs a piece of bread from his pocket, and tosses it onto the table in front of Remo.

“Enjoy,” he says, his voice laced with mockery. “Don’t choke.”

Remo glares, but Marco just chuckles and walks out, leaving behind the faint smell of yeast and mischief.

“Is he always like that?” I ask, half-smiling.

“Worse,” Remo mutters, breaking off a piece of bread and popping it into his mouth.

The quiet returns, but it’s not as heavy this time. I focus on the food, on the way the dough softens under my hands, and the way the sauce simmers in the pan. For a moment, it feels like I’ve carved out a tiny pocket of normalcy in a world that refuses to slow down.

As the sauce thickens, the room grows quieter. Remo doesn’t leave, and I don’t ask him to. His presence is oddly grounding, even if it comes with a side of scrutiny. I steal a glance at himnow and then—how his fingers drum lightly against the table and the subtle furrow of his brow like he’s lost in thought.

“Something on your mind?” I ask, breaking the silence.

His eyes snap to me, sharp and unyielding. “Always.”

It’s the kind of answer that tells you everything and nothing at the same time.

I turn back to the stove. “You know, this whole brooding-in-the-corner thing doesn’t exactly scream ‘trustworthy.’”

“I don’t need to scream it,” he replies coolly. “I’d rather make you scream instead.”

“Is that so?”

No reply. Until I hear the scrape of his chair against the floor. His boots echo softly as he approaches, and I feel the weight of him standing behind me.

“How about I make you do it now?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, and there’s a rumble to it that sends a shiver down my spine.

I turn to face him, the wooden spoon still in my hand. “Step back, mister. I am cooking.”

He stares at me, his jaw tightening. A faint smirk appears on his lips, and then he leans in slightly, his eyes locked on mine.

“I’m going to fuck you right now, Daniela,” he says, his tone heavy with meaning. “And from my experience, there’s little you can do to stop it. So why don’t you put down that spoon, take off your clothes until you’re completely naked underneath that apron, and go wait for me on your knees in my bedroom?”

I don’t look away, even though every instinct tells me I should. There’s something magnetic about him—dangerous, yes, but also compelling in a way I can’t quite explain.

The sauce bubbles behind me, and the smell of garlic and tomatoes fills the space, but I can’t seem to focus on anything other than the way his eyes drill into me.

“Careful, Dolcezza,” he murmurs, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk. “You’re drooling.” That damn nickname. He hasn’t used it in so long that I actually miss it.

I blink, heat rising to my cheeks as I turn back to the stove. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

The smugness in his voice is infuriating, and I grip the spoon a little tighter. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

He chuckles softly, a sound so rare it catches me off guard.

“You’re not the first to say that,” he admits, and when I glance over my shoulder, there’s a softness in his expression that I haven’t seen before.

It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of indifference.

The mood in the room shifts again, heavier this time, as if the air itself is bracing for whatever comes next. After I finish stirring the sauce, I turn off the burner and wipe my hands on a towel.

“There,” I say, stepping back. “Dinner’s ready.”