Page 26 of Forgotten Sacrifice

“Layman’s terms,” he says.

“I won a game against my coach in twomoves,” I tell him incredulously. “Two. Moves.And that’s who you want to train me? Someone I could beat in my sleep?”

“Alright, we’ll look for you a new chess coach.”

“I want to join the Chess Hall in New York City; it’s one of the oldest and most prestigious clubs in the world.” I make my case. “All the who’s who of Grandmasters are either members or have visited the club at some point in their careers. It’s the best place to learn, make connections, and try to land a Grandmaster coach.” I hold my breath as Vince considers.

“We’ll take a trip to check it out tomorrow.”

I grin from ear to ear, until the image of yellow roses pop into my mind.

“What’s the scowl for this time?” Vince sighs.

“You Stockholm syndroming me.” I spin on my heel and stomp off.

“Still not a verb,” he calls after me.

Vince

“Smells good.” Luna says from the doorway.

I wipe the smile from my face before craning my neck; I was wondering if Luna would show for dinner or if I’d have to use force. “I thought we’d start with a light salad with a lemon vinaigrette?—”

“I’ll take ranch.”

“But I thought ranch was for fries?” I mock, raising an eyebrow.

“And I thought lettuce was for rabbits,” she fires back.

“Have it your way. Salad withranch. Fettuccineal burro, and a cherry and dark chocolate crostata is in the oven.” And if she scrapes this dessert in the trash, I’m turning her over my knee.

My hand twitches.

“Impressive. Who taught you to cook?” Luna wonders, having ventured over to take a peek at what I’m doing behind the stove.

“Self-taught,” I confess. “When I started making a little cash, I was no longer limited to government cheese and canned meat; my palate expanded.” I ladle some of the pasta water into a bowl before draining the fettuccine and placing the hot pasta in the bowl, giving it a toss.

“What you said earlier about your image: you always wear a suit so people never guess you were a kid who ate government cheese and canned meat,” she muses.

“I always wear a suit because I always mean business,” I say dismissively, but she’s not wrong. “Make yourself useful and chop some parsley for me.” I change the subject, adding butter to the pasta.

“I don’t know how to use a knife,” she admits.

I grab her wrist, shoving up her sleeve and looking pointedly at her scars.

“Asshole. That’s not what I meant,” Luna snaps, jerking her arm away from me.

“Show me your other wrist,” I command.

“And this is why we only get along for five minute increments,” she snipes.

I raise an eyebrow. “Five minutes is being generous. Show me your other wrist.”

She flips me off as she displays her other wrist, with no signs of recent cuts.

“Good girl.”Dammit.That’s twice now.

So goes to tug her sleeve down, and I tell her, “Your image: you hide behind your hoodies so people never guess you were a kid who cut herself to escape from her abusive father.”