Page 18

17

DANTE

I watched Barbara Gregory’s practiced movements as she began preparing dinner, noting how her earlier fear seemed to have retreated behind a wall of the domestic routine. Despite this not being a kitchen she was that familiar with, she moved with the confidence of someone who’d spent a lifetime cooking for others, gathering ingredients with an almost mechanical precision.

When she reached for a knife and cutting board, her hands that had been shaking steadied. Whatever had rattled her before was now masked behind rituals she used to erect walls she believed unscalable.

“Here.” She thrust both items at me. “Make yourself useful and chop these carrots.”

I accepted both without comment, taking my place at the counter beside Lark, who was already at work on the celery. Our arms brushed occasionally as we chopped, each brief contact sending warmth through my system that had nothing to do with the cozy kitchen.

“The trick to good soup,” Barbara said, stirring with her favorite wooden spoon, “is letting the flavors develop slowly. You can’t rush it.”

“Like anything worth having,” I said quietly, my eyes meeting Lark’s. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she returned to her task.

Barbara glanced between us, her expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” she said after a moment. “Though some things that seem worth having turn out to be more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Gram,” Lark protested.

“I’m just saying that young people often rush into things without considering all the implications.” She tasted the broth, adding a pinch more salt. “Life has a way of complicating even the simplest situations.”

I focused on the carrots, trying to keep my cuts even and precise. The quiet domesticity of the scene struck me again—how different it was from the tense family dinners of my childhood, where every word carried hidden meanings and threats.

“Did I ever tell you about that first winter after I opened the coffee shop?” Barbara asked, her voice warming with the memory. “Such bitter cold that year—people would come in just to warm their hands around their drinks.”

“You’ve told me,” Lark said with a fond smile. “How Mr. Patterson and his wife would camp out at his usual table all day, ordering refill after refill.”

“May she rest in peace.” Her grandmother crossed herself.

“Should I let everyone know dinner will be ready soon?” I asked.

Barbara raised a brow. “Some things take time, young man.” Her eyes found mine briefly. “Like trust.”

“Understood,” I said, acknowledging her warning.

“Do you?” She stirred the pot slowly. “My granddaughter seems to think so.”

“Gram, please.” Lark set her knife down. “Can we just have a nice conversation without?—”

“Without what?” Barbara’s voice sharpened. “Without a grandmother’s natural concern?”

“Without assumptions,” Lark finished firmly. “Alessandro has proven himself.”

The sound of my name on her lips still sent a thrill through me, even in this tense moment. Or maybe because of it. How she defended me to her grandmother, despite their close relationship, meant more than I could express.

“We’re ready for the noodles,” Barbara said after a long moment, her tone softening slightly. “Would you mind getting the flour from the cupboard and eggs from the refrigerator?” she said to me.

“How many?” I asked.

Barbara’s nostrils flared, but then she smiled. “The carton, Alessandro.”

That she’d teased wasn’t lost on me. A small olive branch, perhaps.

“You need equal parts flour and eggs,” she instructed, handing me a large mixing bowl. “One egg per person,” she added, her challenging eyes boring into mine.

She stood over my shoulder as I cracked six.

“Now, whisk them before adding the flour. Remember that the harder you stir, the tougher the noodles will be.”

I thought back to Lark teaching me how to whisk the Matcha and dug around for a wooden utensil.

“You do know how to properly whisk eggs, don’t you?” Barbara asked, handing me a fork.

“Apparently, with a fork,” I said under my breath with a wink.

“A little more thyme, I think,” Barbara said to Lark after tasting the broth again.

“And a bay leaf,” Lark suggested. “It needs something to round out the flavor.”

I watched them work, struck by how much I wanted to be a part of this—their easy companionship, their shared history. Even with all the complications and dangers swirling around us, moments like this made resolution feel possible.

“Set the table,” Barbara ordered Tank when he came down the stairs, but not with the same edge she’d used with me.

“Err, for how many?” he asked.

“Now, how would I know if you don’t?” she snapped.

His eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the same amusement I felt. Glancing at Lark, I caught her covering her mouth to hide her grin.

“How’s this?” I asked, tilting the bowl so Barbara could inspect the now thoroughly whisked eggs.

“Add a bit of water, then start working in the flour. Don’t forget what I said about making the dough too tough.”

I was about to ask if I was supposed to use the fork for that too when Tank stepped closer. “You set the table. I’ll make the noodles.”

While Barbara’s nostrils flared a second time, she didn’t intervene.

As I gathered the plates and silverware, I caught Lark watching me with a soft smile, so different from the looks she’d given me at Alice and Admiral’s wedding. Then, I was the enemy. Now, a man she was starting to trust.

The storm outside had gotten worse, sleet pummeling the windows. But inside, the kitchen was warm and fragrant. The scene’s domesticity almost made me forget about the security teams patrolling the property, the dangers that had brought us here, and the mysteries still unsolved.

“Check the bread, little bird,” Barbara said to Lark, motioning to the counter where a towel covered what smelled like rising yeast.

I watched her softly punch the dough, seemingly satisfied with the way it sprung back. “It’s ready to go into the oven,” she said, taking out a bowl rather than a bread pan. She turned the dough into it, forming a round ball before flattening it into an oval.

Tank nudged me when I returned to see what else I could do to help after I’d finished setting the table. “Grit suggested we meet in the boathouse after dinner,” he said under his breath. “And Alice asked me to mention that she has something she wants to discuss with Lark.”

“Copy that,” I muttered, wondering why Alice wanted to speak with Lark alone rather than the both of us.

A half hour later, Gram announced dinner was ready and asked me to let the others know. Rather than send a message, I went upstairs, mainly in search of Alice.

“Tank mentioned you wanted to talk with Lark,” I said, finding her in front of her multi-monitor workstation.

She looked up from something she was studying on her phone, leaned back, and rolled her shoulders. “After she and her grandmother returned from Gloversville yesterday, she asked me to see what I could find out about her mother.”

“And?”

She hesitated momentarily, then sighed. “There isn’t much, but the most telling thing is what I haven’t found—any indication that she’s deceased.”

“What about?—”

“Your mother either, Alessandro.”

I nodded once, somewhat relieved, except I knew that, oftentimes, missing persons weren’t declared dead until their family pressed for them to be or a body was finally recovered.

“Here’s another thing I know, wherever they are, both appear to be living off the grid. Either that, or they took on new identities.”

I didn’t consider either theory surprising. However, that Alice had phrased it as though both women had taken the same path, was an intriguing thought. “No matches to Lark’s DNA?” I asked.

“Thanks for reminding me. Yes, but not close enough to be her father.”

“Half-sibling?”

Alice shook her head. “No, but there were a couple of matches within the range of a first cousin.”

“Criminal profile?”

“Sadly, yes. With one, anyway. The other came from one of those ancestry places.” She pulled something up on the monitor. “Well, that one would be a great-grandparent. Richard Mazzeo. Born in 1921. Date of death was 1978. Ring any bells?”

I shook my head, but it certainly did. While there was no love lost between the Mazzeo family and the Rossetti’s, both considered the Castellanos mortal enemies. So what in the hell had gone on back in 1998?

When Alice, Admiral, Tank, Blackjack, and I approached the stairs, the scent of the soup and freshly baked bread wafted up to us.

“Something smells amazing,” said Grit, coming in from the boathouse once we’d reached the bottom step. “I hope there’s enough for me.”

“I always make enough to feed an army,” Barbara said, her earlier tension seemingly forgotten as she dished more helpings.

“Lucky for us,” Grit grinned, helping to gather extra chairs.

We settled around the table, steam rising from our bowls in delicate spirals. The simple meal somehow felt more special than any elaborate dinner I’d had in my previous life. Maybe because it was a gathering of people, all of whom shared no agenda other than keeping those they loved safe without it meaning others had to come to harm—unless in self-defense.

“This is delicious,” I said after my first spoonful, and meant it.

Barbara nodded, accepting the compliment with grace. “Food has a way of bringing people together,” she said thoughtfully. “Of helping them find common ground.”

Under the table, Lark’s hand found mine and squeezed gently. The simple contact grounded me, reminding me what I was fighting for. Not just justice or redemption, but a future. One that included quiet dinners, shared laughter, and a love worth protecting.

“More soup?” Barbara offered, already reaching for my bowl.

“Please,” I said and saw the first genuine smile she’d given me all evening.

Soon, the dining area was filled with conversation as we sat back in our chairs, stomachs full. Blackjack regaled us with stories from his time in the service, edited for Barbara’s benefit. Alice and Admiral shared knowing looks across their soup bowls, their easy intimacy a glimpse of what Lark and I might have once all this was behind us.

Through it all, her presence beside me was like a magnetic force. Every accidental touch of her arm against mine, every shared smile, every quiet laugh made my heart race. Again, the domesticity of the scene made me long for a life filled with such simplicity.

“More bread?” Lark offered, passing the basket. Her fingers brushed mine deliberately, sending electricity through my system.

“Thanks,” I managed, wondering if everyone could hear how my voice deepened at her touch.

As the evening wore on, the conversation continued to flow easily. Barbara even laughed at another of Blackjack’s stories, though her eyes still held a wariness when they landed on me. Progress was progress, no matter how small.

“Is there any urgency in meeting tonight?” I asked Grit when we both pushed back from the table and began clearing dishes.

“I was about to suggest we postpone until tomorrow morning.” He rubbed his stomach. “After that meal, I might get my first good night’s sleep in what feels like weeks.”

Later, after the dishes were washed and put away and everyone had dispersed to their various posts and rooms, Lark and I found ourselves alone in the downstairs great room since her grandmother had been among the first to call it a night. The fire had burned low, casting a soft glow across her features as she curled into the corner of the sofa. I sat beside her, pulling her close. She fit perfectly against me, her head resting on my chest. Through the windows, the storm had softened to a gentle rain, its rhythm almost hypnotic.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she whispered after a while.

My heart thundered in my chest. “Lark?—”

She raised her head to look at me. “Please?”

“What are you suggesting?” The truth was, I was all in, regardless.

“Just sleep. I think we’ll both rest easier if we’re together.”

The admission, so simple and honest, undid me completely. I pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Okay.” Then I stood and held my hand out to her, leading her down the hallway.

Once inside her room, we moved around each other carefully, suddenly less comfortable. She disappeared into the bathroom and emerged wearing soft pajamas, her face freshly washed and glowing.

When we finally lay in bed, her back pressed against my chest, everything felt right in a way I couldn’t explain. I buried my face in her hair, breathing in the subtle scent of her shampoo.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

In answer, I tightened my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “More than okay.”

The steady sound of her breathing gradually slowed as she drifted to sleep. I lay awake a while longer, memorizing everything about this moment—the warmth of her body against mine, the perfect fit of her in my arms, the absolute rightness of being here with her.

Just before sleep claimed me, I pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder and whispered, “Sweet dreams, cuore mio .”

“Mmm.” She wriggled closer, nearly making my eyes roll back in my head. “Good night, Alessandro.”