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“It’s breakfast food, but I’m feeling like breakfast for dinner,” she said.

“Same, baby. Need any help?”

No answer.

Okay. That was all right. Maybe I was interrupting her Zen moment thinking about her dad. Her overprotective and doting dad. Her cocoon-her-in-bubble-wrap-before-letting-someone’s-brain-matter-splatter-over-her dad.

I sat and marinated in a sludge of resurgent unworthiness, desperate to know what was running through her head. Was she going to demand I let her go? Did she realize I wasn’t worth the trouble?

I was tempted to reach for a beer but decided to get drunk on her movements. The knife rested beside the cutting board. A bowl containing diced onions sat beside it. Neatly arranged on a chopping board were rows of diced peppers and mushrooms, zucchini and broccoli.

Bianca deftly drained the bacon fat, then removed it to set it upon paper towels. Then she began sautéing the Italian sausage. When that was done, she began cooking the vegetables. It slowly registered in my brain. A delicious aroma soon wrapped around us replacing the stench of bleach and death. Bianca was turning the house back into a home. That was why she didn’t even turn on the vents immediately and only did so later.

She stirred eggs into the mix of vegetables, scattered the cooked Italian sausage and crumbled the bacon into the pan. She was making enough for an army again. Bianca was going to feed me. Feed my men. She was about to put the pan in the oven, when I interjected. “Aren’t you forgetting the cheese?”

She set the pan down, closed the oven, and turned to me.

A trace of a smile touched her lips. They twitched. “It’s a sin not to have cheese in the frittata. What was I thinking?”

“What are you thinking, Bianca?” I asked softly.

Finally, finally, her eyes met mine.

She cocked her head in a familiar thinking gesture. She grabbed the bags of shredded cheese and emptied them intothe pan. Then, with a wooden spoon, she stirred the contents carefully. “Next time, no prepackaged shredded cheese. I like to grate mine into the food.”

“That’ll be a lot of grating.”

“Well, you’re here.”

“Yes, I’m here.” I moved closer.

When she raised the pan with both hands, I opened the oven door for her. She positioned it in its depths, straightened, and set the timer.

I closed the door and leaned against the counter. She moved to the opposite side, so we were face to face. We locked eyes again. Then she dropped hers and studied the tile floors.

“What’s on your mind, baby?” I rephrased the question I asked earlier. She didn’t reply immediately, but somehow, deep inside, I knew she was done working things out in her head.

Still not looking at me, she said, “I don’t know how I was okay with you killing eight men. Was it just yesterday?” she mused. “It seems like it was a long time ago.”

Relief buoyed my chest that she wasn’t feeling sorry for those motherfuckers. “They deserved it.”

This time, her eyes met mine. “Why didn’t I want you killing Raffa, then? He was the one who gave the order.”

“Baby, one thing you need to understand about Raffa. His blindness came at the price of his past atrocities. And he uses his blindness as an excuse to get a pass.”

“But he asked you to kill him.”

“He has nothing to lose. I killed two of his henchmen who had a lotta influence with the soldiers, basically cutting him off at the knees. He can’t get traction anymore. Tommy told me there’s a big shift in loyalties.”

“Is Tommy right?”

“Too soon to say,” I admitted. “Raffa’s considered the old guard. He’s slowly losing influence, and after what he did toyou, it’s an atrocity no one in the modern mafia wants to be associated with. One reason the Rossis are failing is because they failed to evolve.”

She gave a hum of assent.

“Wanna sit?” I glanced at the timer. “Looks like we have another hour or so.”

She shrugged and moved to the breakfast table near the window.