Page 94 of My Dark Fairy Tale

“No risk, no reward?” I snorted. “Really, Marti?”

She glowered at my use of the nickname, but I thought she secretly liked it, because she hadn’t told me to fuck off yet.

“Fine, do what you want. Mess up both your lives and mine by extension because I’ll have to be the one to deal with his mopey ass when you leave.”

“Are you almost done with the salad?” Carmine asked, coming into the kitchen in a vest, button-up, and trousers like he was about to walk the Versace runway and not cook in the kitchen with us. “Raffa gave me permission to duck out of work and focus on what really matters.” He pointed at me. “Tiramisu.”

“The key is making the ladyfingers from scratch.” I echoed the words he had been telling me since last week, when I’d agreed to help him make dessert for the festivities. “I know. I took a peek in the pantry, and they turned out really well.”

We had left them overnight so they could dry out, all the better to absorb the coffee-and-liquor mixture.

Carmine pressed a hand to his heart. “My angel.”

“Stop flirting withcerbiatta mia, Carmine,” Raffa drawled as he came into the kitchen in bare feet. “I gave you permission to cook with her. Not to try to steal her away.”

Next to Carmine’s trussed-up finery and grooming, Raffa looked casual in his black trousers and thin knit sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair was still a bit mussed from the make-out break we’d taken a couple of hours ago, and I hoped he hadn’t had a Zoom meeting because he also had lipstick on his throat.

“Ha! Like I’d ever leave you for the likes of Carmine,” I scoffed, leaning back into Raffa as he pressed up behind me and planted a kiss on my bare shoulder. “If you’re going to be jealous, I’d worry most about Servio.”

The eighty-year-old cook froze in the act of making six batches of lasagna, eyes wide.

“What?” I said into the silence. “Any woman in her right mind would consider being with Servio for his tortellini alone.”

Martina snorted, and Carmine made an insulted noise in the back of his throat.

But Raffa laughed into my hair.

“Are your friends coming?” he asked, kissing my neck.

I squirmed. Even though I’d woken up to his mouth between my thighs while I lay on my stomach in the bed and then come twice when he canted my hips up and fucked me into the mattress, I was still on edge with lust. Knowing I only had two more days to take my fill was definitely a factor.

“Yes,” I breathed before clearing my throat. “Bibi and Ramesh asked if they could bring a Guyanese dish, and I said of course. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. They are welcome here, and it will be interesting to have something other than the usual spread.”

Servio grumbled at that, but we both ignored him.

“I made my mom’s recipe for potato salad,” I told him. “She makes it every summer for the Fourth of July, and obviously I missed that because I was here, so I thought it might be nice to add to the celebration.”

I turned my head to catch Raffa looking into the distance, and I wondered if he was imagining spending the Fourth of July with me in some alternate reality where we could have that kind of future.

He blinked, and the moment was gone.

“What did you think of the Corteo Storico della Repubblica Fiorentina?”

Ludo, Martina, and I had gone to the parade in front of the Basilica of San Lorenzo that morning while Raffa worked with the others. I’d hoped he would go with me, but I knew before he made an excuse that he wouldn’t.

It was like he was trying to ease us apart by degrees.

I wanted to shout at him that it wouldn’t hurt any less to rip the bandage off slowly.

“It was amazing,” I breathed. “The historical outfits, the suits of armor, the drummers and the trumpeters. I honestly didn’t know where to look.”

“She was like a kid in a candy store,” Martina teased. “I was almost embarrassed by her enthusiasm.”

“You were the one to first shout ‘Viva San Lorenzo,’” Ludo reminded her.

She threw a slice of tomato at him.