Second-in-Command (Men of Hidden Justice 2)

“Oh, Marcus,” she whispered, moving closer. “I’m sorry.”

I stared at the wall behind her, unable to see the look of pity on her face. “We lived in a fairly rough neighborhood. The restaurant was a favorite of some local thugs, who kind of protected my parents. A rival gang moved into the area, and they were a constant source of stress to my parents. The place became a sort of standoff between the two gangs. My dad hated it. He always strived to be a good neighbor. Help others in the area. He didn’t understand the mentality. It ate at him and, I think, caused his health to fail. I lost them both because of some young idiots wanting to stake a claim that wasn’t theirs to stake. In the end, we all lost. I had no parents, there was no restaurant, and for what? The stupid concept that it was their territory?” I huffed an angry breath. “Idiots.”

“What did you do?”

I rolled, folding my arms under my head. I felt a surge of quiet pleasure when Missy edged closer, laying her head on my chest. Without thinking, I slid an arm out, spreading my hand across her bare back and caressing the skin.

“I was young and tough. You had to be in that neighborhood. Another fan of my parents’ restaurant was Aldo—Matteo’s first boss. He looked out for me, made sure I got to keep my parents’ apartment, and he got me some training. He saw something in me. Told me about what he did—the work. I found it fascinating—the thought of working to rid the world of awful people. Men who started out like the young idiots who’d helped put my father in an early grave and then moved on and got worse. Through him, I met Matteo, and we became fast friends. When he got his first team, I was at his side. I was until the day he left, and I took over his spot. I went from being second-in-command to the boss.” I allowed a smile to break through. “I think most days I wish I was still his second. I miss working with him. But he is happy, and that is what is important.”

She was silent for a moment. “What was the name of the restaurant?”

“Vinny G’s. My dad was Vincent, and my mom was Gia. They thought it was cute.”

“It was,” she agreed.

She traced a finger over my chest. “And you learned to cook from them?”

“Yes. And garden from my nonna, who lived with us until she died. The windows were full of her pots. The front stoop of the apartment block too. Everyone knew who they belonged to. She even had my dad dig out the little bit of dirt in the back, and she grew tomatoes and peppers. She shared them with everyone. Taught me how fresh always tastes best.”

“And you have no siblings?”

“No, just me.” I paused. “It’s best that way. What I do is too dangerous. I have no weak link.” Then, unable to stop myself, I glanced down at her, meeting her soft, mossy-colored eyes. “At least I didn’t,” I admitted in a low voice.

She smiled, looking sweet and indulgent. It was a rare moment between us. One of honesty and emotion. No anger, no raging passion or fear, nothing but us. It unsettled me, even as it warmed me.

Luckily, her stomach chose to growl, and I chuckled. “Maybe I need to show off my cooking skills and feed you?”

“Would you make me pasta?”

I bent and kissed the end of her nose. “Yes.”

Perched on the counter, she watched me make a fast marinara and was fascinated with the bags of fresh pasta I had frozen in the freezer. I shrugged. “Pop in boiling water and it’s ready in two minutes. I don’t always have time to make up a batch, and I don’t like the dry packaged stuff. Tastes like shit.”

“I’ve never had fresh pasta, much less made it,” she said.

“I’ll show you.”

She smiled, looking almost shy. “I’d like that.”

I stirred the marinara, tapping the spoon against the pot. “I need some basil.”

“I can get it.”

I hesitated, and she shook her head. “Really, Marcus? You think someone is looking for me on your roof?”

I chuckled. “Fine, 631790 is the passcode for the stairs and the door.”

She repeated it and jumped down, wincing slightly as her feet hit the hard wooden floor.

“You okay?” I asked.

She paused then nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Basil, woman. I need it.”

“Okay, okay, bossyman.”

She left, the door clicking shut quietly. I diced some garlic and shallots, adding them to the pot. I stirred the sauce, lowering the heat so it would only simmer gently. I got out some chicken and pounded the fillets thin to make cutlets, then frowned, glancing at my watch. She’d been gone fifteen minutes. Five would have been sufficient, ten if she was unsure which plant was basil.