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Scarlet’s breath hitches when she hears his words. My entire body goes still. My eyes dare him to finish that sentence. He does. “And you like it.”

The smirk on his face is borderline suicidal. He snickers, clearly happy with himself, and makes his exit before I can make up my mind if I want to shoot him in the head or the gut.

Scarlet stares after him, wide-eyed, before turning back to me. “Is he always like that?”

I exhale sharply. “Unfortunately.”

A moment of silence stretches between us. Then Scarlet tilts her head. “You let him talk to you like that?”

My lips twitch. “He’s the only one who can.”

Her eyes darken slightly, but not in fear. She is curious about me. And fuck if that doesn’t make me want to do something stupid. Like asking her if she feels strong enough to get up for a little while.

She nods eagerly, and I realize I must have asked out loud. Fuck me, that woman is messing with my head.

"Alright, you're in for a treat," I promise, before I wrap her in my bathrobe and carry her down the stairs to the kitchen, where the cook has already left, but two maids are still busy cleaning up.

"Out!" I growl.

They have enough sense to drop whatever they're doing and disappear in the time it takes me to gently put Scarlet down on one of the barstools. Her gaze is quizzical when she asks, "Do people always do what you say?"

"If they have enough sense." I nod, looking for what I need. Getting all the ingredients together under her watchful eyes doesn't take long. I haven't cooked in a long time. Dad taught Gigi and me; he said it was his way of relaxing. He was right. Kneading dough is quite rewarding when I can't punch someone's face after a long day.

“What are you doing?” she finally asks, her voice still hoarse from everything she’s been through.

"Cooking.”

She blinks. “You… cook?”

I smirk. “Don’t sound so surprised. I can kill a man and make fresh spaghetti in the same day.”

She stares for a beat before shaking her head. “No, it’s just—” she swallows. “I didn’t expect that.”

Neither did I. I actually made a joke. When was the last time I joked?

I haven't cooked in a long time either. Not since Dad… I don't want to go there right now; my grief for him is still buried under a shit ton of fury, and that's where it needs to stay until Carlos is dead. This was a mistake. I have no idea what I was thinking bringing her down here and starting a pasta dough. This is exactly the kind of shit I can't afford right now. Not when I need to stay focused on getting revenge for my dad.

Sweat drips down the back of my neck while I keep kneading the dough, imagining it to be Carlos's throat. Our silence is almost companionable. Whenever I look up, she looks distant, too. There is a vacant stare to her eyes that I don't like.

"You okay?" I finally break the silence.

She blinks, like she's coming back from far, far away.

Her chin juts out, "Will you torture me too? Use me to blackmail my father to do things he doesn't want to do?"

The edge in her voice takes me by surprise, but it shouldn’t have. I suspected she had claws. The bastards hung her up on the ceiling for two days—two days—and she didn't break. I’d expected to find a limp mess when I descended the stairs to that basement, but she had more life in her than some men I've seen subjected to the same torture.

"I would never torture a woman, passerotta," I assure her, the nickname escaping me before I can think about it. But it fits her,little sparrow.

"But you would order it?"

I shake my head, "No."

"Hmm," she harrumphs. The dough is done, time to let it rest.

I pick up a large kitchen knife and begin cutting tomatoes, onions, garlic, and the required spices. Whatever goes into my sauce is always fresh.

"Still, you won't let me go. You're using me against my dad," she works up the nerve to accuse me.