Page 193 of King of Pain

Ant lifts an eyebrow at me, and I can see he’s trying to play it cool.

“Hey,” I add, pointing my fork at him. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s ever going to unseat your lasagna from the number one spot. That’s sacred.”

He offers me a small smile. It’s polite. Appreciative. But it’s not the usual light-up-the-room, proud chef grin he wears when I rave about his cooking. It lands soft. Muted.

I pick up my wine glass and take a slow sip, studying him over the rim. He cuts into his chicken, his fork moving on autopilot. Then he sighs. Deep. Heavy.

That does it.

I set my glass down, wipe my mouth, and lean closer.

“Okay,” I say, careful but direct. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

Ant’s head snaps up like I startled him. “What? What do you mean? There’s not—”

“Don’t even try, Pacini,” I cut in gently. “I know you.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at his plate and draws in a slow, shaky breath.

I reach across, hook a finger under his chin, and tilt his face toward mine.

“Is it the whole moving in thing?” I ask softly. “Is it too much?”

He grabs my hand in both of his and gives me a look like I’ve just said something unthinkable. “Jesus, no,” he says quickly. “This is exactly where I want to be.”

I exhale, tension slowly melting out of me.

Ant squeezes my hand again and says, firmer this time, “This is where I belong. This is it, baby. Us. Forever.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “It is.”

He lets go of my hand, and I shift mine to his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “And if it’s us, forever, you need to let me help carry the weight of your burdens.”

Ant sighs, leans back in his chair, and rubs his hands down his face.

Then he lowers his hands and looks at me, finally letting the weight spill into his voice.

“So,” he says, “I got a phone call today.”

I shift my chair so I’m fully facing him, resting one arm on the back and planting my feet firm on the floor. “What kind of phone call?”

Ant blows out a breath. “It was an attorney.”

That alone makes me sit up straighter, tension snapping down my spine. “Okay…”

He nods, hands folding and unfolding in his lap like they can’t decide what to do. “The attorney—his firm—they’re representing a group of victims. Abuse survivors. From Catholic priests in the Detroit diocese. It spans decades. Multiple parishes.” He hesitates for half a breath, then adds, “Including the parish my Catholic school was in.”

I lean forward and place both hands on his thighs, grounding him, grounding me. I rub slow circles, hoping he feels the steady weight of me there.

“And they want you to join the case?”

He nods again, slower this time.

“What did you tell them?”

He looks at me, eyes swimming with emotion, but steady. “I told him I’m not ready to be involved in anything with this.”

I nod, my hands stilling on his legs just long enough for him to know I heard him. I rub again, firmer this time. “Okay.”