Chapter 2 - THE TASTE OF ORDER
"Why?" I repeated, keeping my eyes locked on Alessandro as the water in the pot began to simmer. "Because yelling is what people do when they have lost control. I haven't lost anything."
I turned my back to them, an act of sheer vulnerability that in a mafia household usually meant death, or in this case, a face full of cereal. But nothing hit me. The silence in the kitchen stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the rhythmic chopping of my knife against the wooden block. I sliced garlic, crushed tomatoes, and threw a handful of basil into the sizzling olive oil. The aroma filled the room, overpowering the smell of spilled orange juice and rebellion.
Marco, the supposed ringleader, hopped off the counter. He walked slowly toward the stove, his three brothers trailing behind him like ducklings in red silk pajamas. "You're not cooking chicken nuggets," Marco observed, his nose scrunching up.
"Chicken nuggets are for boys who throw apples," I said calmly, stirring the sauce. "I'm cooking pasta all'arrabbiata. It has a bite to it. But maybe it's too spicy for you."
"I like spicy," Nico chimed in immediately, his chest puffing out.
"Me too," Alessandro echoed.
The quiet one, Leo, didn't speak, but he pulled a stool up to the island, his dark eyes watching the bubbling red sauce. I set a stack of plates on the counter. "If you want to prove you're brave enough to eat it, grab a rag. The counter needs to be clean before the plates go down."
To my shock—and clearly to Victor Rinaldi’s absolute disbelief—Marco grabbed a dish towel. Within five minutes, the marble was wiped down. At 7:35 PM, exactly twenty-five minutes before the deadline, four bowls of steaming, spicy pasta were set before four suddenly very quiet boys. They ate like they were starving, slurping noodles and reaching for the crusty bread I had toasted.
I leaned against the counter, wiping my hands on an apron I had found in the pantry, and looked at Victor. He was still standing by the doorway, his wine glass completely forgotten. His dark eyes swept over his sons, then landed on me. There was a dangerous curiosity in his gaze now.
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"7:45," Victor murmured, glancing at the gold watch on his wrist. "You won the bet, Miss Valente."
"I didn't realize it was a game, Mr. Rinaldi," I replied. "Now, about my daughter."
