Page 70 of Caught in the Crossfire

Anthony led us around the edges of the restaurant, and I let my fingers skim across the brick wall while we walked. What was Rossi doing here?

“The Don is waiting,” Anthony said as he gestured for us to step into the kitchen in the back. I eyed him warily, expecting usto be led to some sort of private table or dark, secret room in the back, but Anthony gestured to a man kneading dough at one of the stainless steel prep counters.

The man was dark-haired and tall, even leaning over the counter working. He wore dark blue slacks and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up—a suit missing the jacket—plus an apron spotted with flour. It was obvious he didn’t belong in this kitchen; he looked nothing like the other cooks in matching black chefs’ coats preparing food on the other side.

“Forgive me,” Enzo Rossi said, deftly moving the dough and barely looking up. “I’m trying to make some dinner. You’ll excuse my men for the holdup at the door. Anthony is just trying to make a name for himself.”

My eyebrow raised as I cast an amused look at Anthony, who blanched as he stood ramrod straight at the kitchen entrance.

“Look at you, covered in flour,” Cas said with a smirk. “I don’t understand why you put so much effort into making it fresh when you always overcook it.”

Rossi barked a laugh. “Fuck you. It’s been ages since you’ve tried my pasta.”

“I have an excellent memory.”

Cas had said that he and Rossi were friends. They’d worked together when Rossi took over his Family a few years ago and kept in touch ever since. But I didn’t expect them to be like this. The other Dons were so stuffy and old. I could never picture my father making fresh pasta in the privacy of our own home, let alone in a commercial kitchen.

I cocked my hip to the side, watching his hands while he and Cas exchanged some small pleasantries and barbed jabs. “You’re overworking the dough.”

He stopped with a sigh before bracing his hands on the counter and staring down at the rough lump. “I’m trying to learn my Nonna’s recipe.”

“Any luck?”

He shrugged. “I have all the proper measurements, and I still can’t get the texture right. But I’m not one to give up. I’ll figure it out.” He picked up a dish towel tucked into the tie of his apron and wiped his hands. “Leona Vero.”

“Enzo Rossi,” I shot back at him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Let’s get right to it, shall we?” He looked between me and Cas. “I believe you’re searching for an Albanian. I know where he is.”

Cas and I exchanged a glance. Now this was a surprise.

“So where is he, then?”

Hehmm’dand braced both his hands on the prep table while he sized me up. My neck prickled at his clear measuring. If it weren’t for the slightly amused look in his bright yet careful eyes, I might draw a knife. From any other person, I’d probably be pissed—but with Rossi, I didn’t feel like he was trying to insult me. More like trying to determine if he could trust me.

I couldn’t deny that he was handsome, just a few years older than Caspian. At one point, Obi had considered a strategic marriage to Rossi, though we’d all shut that down immediately. Still, it wasn’t just his face; it was also the confidence with which he held himself and the strength that radiated across his shoulders.

I could see why the other Dons didn’t like him.

He reminded me of Max.

“Why do you want him?” He pulled out a length of plastic wrap and wrapped it around the dough before placing it in the industrial fridge behind him. The cooks continued to work around him as if he didn’t exist. The bustle of a busy restaurant continued around us.

“Are you aware of what the Albanians do? The Vokshi Clan?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s why I want him.”

“You want to kill him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Eventually. I need information first.”

“What kind?”

I scoffed. “Am I on trial here, Rossi? You either have information for me, or you don’t. Stop dicking me around.”

He chuckled as he undid his apron and tossed it to Anthony. His hip leaned against the counter. His eyes trained on my scar. “My apologies for your recent…incident. I’m glad to see that you’re in good health.”