Oath of Fidelity (Deviant Doms 3)

He flinches at Tosca’s high-pitched scream and holds the phone from his ear, then gives me a thumbs-up. I feel my eyebrows rise incredulously. Ah, that didn’t sound like a thumbs-up.

They talk over details, but he’s quickly “mhming” her to death until he finally says, “Listen, we’re starving and need to eat dinner. I’ll follow up with the girls tomorrow, okay? And anything you need, Mama. I’m right here in Tuscany and can pick stuff up and send it home. Yeah, of course we’ll do the cake. Okay. Yeah. Night.”

Without a pause, he hangs up the phone and calls Romeo.

“Rome.” He gives Romeo the same spiel as he did Tosca, but Romeo needs far less explanation.

“No, haven’t knocked her up. Not yet, anyway,” he mutters. I feel my cheeks flush pink, but it passes quickly. I should know better than to expect anything short of crass references to sex with the Rossi men. God.

I pick up my own phone and text Angelina, but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably asleep in between nursing sessions with Nicolo. I send her another text.

Call me tomorrow. We’ve got to talk.

I turn my attention back to Tavi, who’s moved from the wedding to talking to Romeo about what we saw today at the morgue. All semblance of sadness or emotion have fled. He’s one-hundred-percent business.

“Yeah, Boss. Of course. I’ll find who did this and there’ll be payback, big time. Coming home for the wedding first, though. Obviously we have our usual suspects.”

I block it all out. I don’t want to hear anything about his work. I had enough of it growing up that the whole damn thing gives me indigestion. I make a vow right then and there to invest in those fancy noise-canceling headphones.

I sit up and reach for his hand. I give him a little tug.

I point to the kitchen. I need to inventory what he has on hand. I saw fresh herbs outside the window by the garden, and suspect if he has a housekeeper and an on-site cook that he’s got a well-stocked pantry to boot.

I pause when he shakes his head, though, and makes a little walking motion with two fingers. He’s coming with me, I guess.

I clean up in the biggest bathroom I’ve ever seen, then find myself a pair of his boxers and a clean T-shirt. The boxers are laughably huge on me, but the T-shirt hits just below the ass, so it works. Tomorrow, we shop. I know we were supposed to today, so I’m guessing he’ll have no problem with it if we shop tomorrow.

Tavi pads noiselessly behind me as I walk to the kitchen and do a quick inventory.

“Wow,” I breathe to myself, since he’s still talking in Italian on the phone. The pantry’s stunning and fully stocked with rice, flours and breads, onion and garlic and hard root vegetables in a wooden bin, spices and herbs and non-perishables. It’s beautifully organized like one might find in a home and garden cooking show. With a little squeal of delight, I fill my arms with a bottle of olive oil, a few onions, some garlic cloves, and thick carrots with the stems still on them.

I walk over to the stove and lay them beside it, then hum to myself while I take in the fridge. It’s as well-stocked and beautifully organized as the pantry, boasting a variety of cheeses, cream and butter, lettuces and prepared salads, meats wrapped in fresh butcher paper, and pretty glass dishes filled with soups and casseroles that make my mouth water. I don’t want to eat any of the prepared food, though. I want to cook for Tavi.

I take some thin-sliced chicken and baby spinach with the heavy cream and chicken stock, and head to the stove. I’m still humming to myself while the water boils. I cut thick slabs of fresh bread I find wrapped in paper on the counter, rub the wedges with a clove of garlic, brush fresh butter and olive oil on it, then broil. Soon, the kitchen smells like heaven.

I’ve blocked out Tavi’s conversations, so I don’t realize he’s talking to me when he curses in Italian.

I turn and look over my shoulder at him. I didn’t hear what he said. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah, baby,” he says in his best gangster accent. “I’m talkin’ ta you.”

I have a slice of bread in one hand and a clove of garlic in the other. “Quindi, che cosa vuoi?” I ask him. What do you want then?

“I said where’d you learn to cook like this?” Before I answer him, I turn involuntarily and look back at the stove. Seared chicken simmers in a creamy sauce made with cream, butter, and chicken broth. Leaves of basil and spinach as well as freshly grated parmesan-reggiano cheese sits in a glass ramekin, ready to garnish. The pasta boils behind it, and I have a small dish of chopped salad with a homemade vinaigrette on the side. The kitchen smells of toasted bread and garlic.