The bastard had looked down at my knife, then back into my eyes, a gleam evident in them.
Seeing red, I’d snapped and stabbed him. Constantine and Alessandro had reached for me, pulling me back to prevent me from finishing him off.
“You good, Boss Man?”
Blinking a few times, I dropped my eyes to the knife in my hand, and all I could see was blood coating the blade. “What?” I muttered, freeing myself of the thirteen-year-old memory.
“You okay?” my sous-chef, Brandon, asked. “You’re off tonight. You’ve never messed up a dish.”
“I messed up a dish?” I let go of the knife and faced him.
“Yeah, man, this doesn’t taste right, too much salt.” He set a bowl of my signature red Romesco sauce in my hand. “That’s not like you.”
I snatched a spoon and tasted the sauce meant for tonight’s salmon dish, and damn, he was right. But my mind had been messed up ever since the exchange with Thomas that morning, especially the conversation afterward with Maria.
In the back of her head, she had to have known my brothers and I would never have let that animal walk away after what he did, though. Justice had failed my sister. The murderer’s lawyers had the case thrown out of trial because of evidence mishandling. No way would we let him walk away and potentially hurt someone else.
We’d wound up arrested for his murder. Constantine had tried to fall on the sword for us, but we wouldn’t let him go to jail.
But then we were offered a get-out-of-jail-free card and a fake news story about the man’s death in exchange for our souls. Though nothing in life is ever truly free.
“I think I need to step out. Can you take over?” I was in no condition to be cooking.
Before Brandon had a chance to respond, I began walking my fingers down my jacket, preparing to leave.
I heard him say, “Of course,” as I tossed my jacket on a chair on my way to the back door.
Once outside, the door to the parking lot thudded shut behind me, drawing the attention of the only two people outside. Facing Maria right now was not the plan. But there she was. And so was Natalia.
Maria had avoided me all day after she’d dropped Chiara off at Thomas’s house. She’d texted earlier that she planned to drive herself to the restaurant instead of catching a ride with me, and I didn’t argue. She’d needed space, and I’d given it to her, too worried about my state of mind to be around her in the first place.
“Everything okay?” Natalia called out, her hand over her stomach with her back to her husband’s truck. A nearby lamppost illuminated both of them, making them look like angels, and there I was standing in the dark like a damn metaphor for something.
“I just needed to step away for a minute,” I shared, unsure if I wanted to go to them or escape somewhere else.
“I was about to head in.” Natalia started toward me and whispered upon passing by, “She’s upset about Chiara being gone. Cheer her up, please.”
Yeah, she’s upset about more than just that. But I nodded, then waited for Natalia to head inside before I reluctantly ate up the space between myself and the woman who drove me crazy. But the world also seemed to stop spinning whenever she wasn’t with me. And that wasn’t good for anyone. “You didn’t tell her what happened between us?”
Maria fidgeted with the sleeve of her cream-colored blouse as she said, “No, not yet.” Her eyes worked up to mine as she leaned against the truck. “I’ve been doing some thinking today.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I glibly responded.
She huffed out a deep breath and let go of her sleeve, only to nervously shake her hand at her side. What was she planning to say? “And?”
“You keep telling me you’re bad for me. Dangerous. And sometimes I forget that this is real life and not fiction.” She wet her lips, drawing my eyes there like a magnet. “And if a guy tells you he’s not good for you, well, in real life, you should listen.” Her gaze lifted to the clouds overhead in the dark sky. “The thing is, I’m stubborn. I don’t listen well. And why can’t life imitate art? Or hell, who says art’s not actually just a mirror of life?”
I grabbed the back of my neck and squeezed, uncomfortable as I waited for my little fireball to continue. That morning, I told her I’d killed a man, and she was taking it in stride. Acting as though I’d confessed only to stealing someone’s recipe or running a stop sign.
“Even in light of what you told me this morning, I’m still here.” She sniffled. “I’m willing to risk my heart for you,” she declared in a soft voice as her eyes returned to mine. “I’ll take the chance you break it if it means you’ll give us a chance.” She was being vulnerable with me, possibly even forgiving me for murder. And I was standing there like an idiota, unsure what to do or how to react to that.