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I knew the truce hadn’t been the most popular move that Renzo had ever made as a boss, but this was evidence for why it had been a good move. Why Renzo was a good boss.
“Go home and tell your girl she’s safe,” Renzo said, clamping a hand on my shoulder before taking off down toward his car with Rico.
“You wanna give me a ride?” I asked Cage.
“Sure,” he agreed, leading me to his car, then dropping me off out front of my building.
Out of an abundance of caution, I didn’t call off the guards out front of my place. I figured that once we started to see movement, proving that Dimitri and his crew were picking up shop and moving to East New York like they’d agreed, then I would feel comfortable going back to normal.
Though, I was pretty sure I was going to want a guard with Elizabeth ‘round the clock when I wasn’t around. Renzo had that for Lore. Dav was that for Cinna. It just made sense. When you had something precious that you wanted to keep safe, you made sure someone was around in your stead when you couldn’t be.
I also planned to take Elizabeth to the range, to help her learn to be more comfortable with guns in the hopes that she might agree to carry one with her too.
But those were concerns for another day.
Right now, I got to go up there and tell her that most of the worries she’d been struggling with since she first overheard the call with the senator and Dimitri were handled
“Good news?” Serano asked as I exited the elevator.
“They agreed to the arrangement.”
“But you wanna see proof,” he said.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “But I’m hopeful. Did you order dinner?” I asked, smelling something wafting out from under the door of the condo.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s been smellin’ good for a while.”
“Hm,” I said, reaching for the door.
“She prolly wants a dinner for two,” Serano said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you a plate,” I said, smiling at his preoccupation with food.
With that, I moved into the apartment, being met with the acidic scent of tomatoes, the tangy hint of garlic, and a mix of spices.
I moved past the cat stand, giving Kevin and Richard—who Saff insisted on calling ‘Dick’ whenever she popped by—a quick hello before making my way into the kitchen.
Elizabeth’s phone was on the island, some pop station playing as she wiggled her hips as she pressed a fork to the edges of little ravioli squares.
“You’re cooking for me?” I asked, making her jump and look up.
Flour dusted the front of her shirt and pants. Some of her blonde hair had slipped out of the claw clip at the back of her head. And there was a bandaid on her finger that hadn’t been there when I’d left.
“Hey!” she said, beaming at me. “I’m trying,” she added, waving toward the hilariously messy kitchen. I was pretty sure she’d managed to use all of my cutting boards, spoons, and several of my knives. The sink was overflowing.
“Looks like you’re doing a good job,” I said, glancing around at the remnants of the ingredients scattered around.
Empty fresh herb packages, ricotta, crushed tomato cans, flour, butter, shells of eggs.
“I followed your dough recipe, but I decided to play around with the filling,” she told me. “An art, not a science, right?” she asked, giving me a shy smile.
“Absolutely,” I agreed, walking behind her to press a kiss to the side of her head. “What did you use?”
“Ricotta, of course,” she said, waving toward the empty container. “But also sweet Italian sausage,” she said.
“Sounds amazing,” I told her. “Smells even better.”
“It’s pretty much ready to go into the water. So it will be done in no time.”