20

I felt my cheeks flush, his words hanging in the air between us, teasing and loaded with more meaning than they let on.

“Fine,” I said, trying to ignore the way my stomach twisted pleasantly at his tone. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m more likely to burn water than cook a proper meal.”

Vincent smirked, standing and clearing the table of our coffee mugs. “Then it’s a good thing I’m an excellent teacher.”

“An excellent teacher, huh?” I replied, crossing my arms and leaning back in my chair. “We’ll see about that.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me, his dark eyes filled with amusement. “Oh, we will. Be ready, Jennifer . You’re going to learn from the best.”

I smiled at his confidence, letting myself enjoy the lighter moment. After the weight of our earlier conversation, it was a relief to focus on something as simple as cooking.

As Vincent moved about the kitchen, gathering ingredients and setting them on the counter, I couldn’t help but admire how at ease he seemed in this space. For someone with such a dangerous past—and likely present—he was surprisingly domestic. It was… endearing.

He caught me watching him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “I’m just trying to figure out how you manage to do it all. Run restaurants, be a single dad, and, you know… other things.”

“Other things?” he repeated, his tone teasing as he started peeling potatoes.

“You know,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “All the secret mafia stuff.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not as glamorous as you think, Jennifer .”

“But it’s still dangerous, isn’t it?” I asked softly, my earlier curiosity creeping back in.

Vincent paused for a moment, setting the peeler down and meeting my gaze. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice steady. “It’s dangerous. But I’ve learned to manage it. And I’ll make sure it doesn’t touch you.”

There was a fierceness in his tone, a promise that sent a shiver down my spine.

“I believe you,” I said quietly, and I meant it. Despite everything, I trusted Vincent .

He seemed to relax at my words, his shoulders loosening as he returned to peeling the potatoes. “Good. Now, come over here and help me with these. The sooner we start, the sooner you get your gnocchi.”

I laughed, pushing myself up from the chair and joining him at the counter. “Alright, boss. What do you need me to do?”

Vincent handed me a second peeler and gestured to the remaining potatoes. “Start with these. And try not to lose a finger.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. “I’ll do my best.”

As we worked side by side, peeling and boiling the potatoes, I found myself relaxing even more. Vincent ’s calm confidence was infectious, and his playful teasing kept the mood light.

At one point, I accidentally splashed water on him while rinsing the potatoes, and he retaliated by flicking flour at me.

“Hey!” I protested, laughing as I tried to shield myself.

“Payback,” he said with a smirk, holding up his hands as if daring me to challenge him.

I grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at him, hitting him square in the chest. His eyes widened in mock indignation, and before I knew it, we were in the middle of a full-blown flour fight, laughing like kids.

By the time we called a truce, the kitchen was a mess, and we were both covered in flour.

“You’re cleaning this up,” Vincent said, pointing at the mess with a grin.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “This was your fault.”

“My fault?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who started it.”

“I did not!”

“Liar,” he teased, reaching out to brush a bit of flour off my cheek. The gesture was so tender, so unexpected, that it left me momentarily speechless.

I looked up at him, my heart pounding as our laughter faded into a comfortable silence. His hand lingered for a moment before he pulled it back, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s finish this,” he said, his voice softer now.

“Yeah,” I said, my own voice barely above a whisper.

We returned to cooking, the air between us heavier than before but not uncomfortable. There was something unspoken lingering, something I wasn’t ready to name just yet.

By the time we plated the gnocchi, the kitchen smelled heavenly, the rich aroma of tomato sauce and fresh herbs filling the space.

Vincent handed me a plate and gestured for me to sit. “Taste test,” he said with a small smile.

I took a bite, and the flavors exploded on my tongue. “Oh my god,” I said, closing my eyes in bliss. “This is amazing.”

“Good,” he said, sitting across from me with his own plate. “Because it’s all yours.”

I looked at him, my heart full and my stomach even fuller. For a moment, everything felt perfect—simple, safe, and perfect.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t last.

Because perfection, in my experience, was always fleeting.

A delicious shiver ran through me, his low chuckle doing wicked things to my resolve. I tried to steady my breath, but the way his hands pressed into the small of my back, keeping me firmly against him, made it impossible to think clearly.

“You act so tough,” I said, my voice tinged with false bravado, “but I’m not scared of you.”

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile against my neck. “Not yet, maybe. But keep testing me, baby girl, and you’ll find out exactly what happens when you push too far.”

A thrill ran through me at his words. I couldn’t deny the pull he had over me, the magnetic tension between us that felt both intoxicating and dangerous.

I lifted my chin, defiant. “Maybe I want to push. Maybe I want to see what you’ll do.”

He pulled back slightly to look at me, his green eyes narrowing as they studied my face. His gaze was intense, like he could see right through my bravado, straight to the desire I was trying so hard to mask.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Jennifer ,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with warning.

“Maybe I like danger,” I shot back, even as my heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t know where this courage—or stupidity—was coming from, but I wasn’t about to back down now.

His hand slid from the small of my back, trailing down to my hip. His grip tightened just enough to send a clear message: You’re mine to handle, and I don’t mind reminding you.

“Danger, huh?” His lips brushed against my ear, his voice a velvet promise. “You don’t know the half of it, little girl.”

I swallowed hard, every nerve in my body on high alert. The way he called me “little girl” was both infuriating and thrilling, a constant reminder of the power dynamic between us that I couldn’t seem to resist.

“Then show me,” I challenged, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hand moved with purpose, gripping my chin and tilting my head back until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. The intensity in his eyes stole the breath from my lungs.

“You think you can handle me?” he asked, his tone both mocking and serious.

I bit my bottom lip, unsure how to answer. My silence only seemed to amuse him further.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, his smirk widening. “You talk a big game, but when it comes down to it, you’re just a sweet little thing who wants to be handled. Isn’t that right, Jennifer ?”

“No,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, and the simple touch sent a wave of heat through me. “Liar.”

Before I could respond, he kissed me again, this time slower, deeper, as if he wanted to remind me who was in control. My resolve melted under the weight of his lips, and I found myself leaning into him, my hands fisting the front of his shirt.

When he pulled back, his expression was a mix of triumph and something softer, almost tender. It caught me off guard, leaving me breathless.

“See?” he said, his voice gentle now, though no less commanding. “I know exactly what you need, Jennifer . And I’m not afraid to give it to you.”

My cheeks burned as I stared up at him, my heart thundering in my chest. I wanted to say something, to push back, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You’ll learn, baby girl,” he continued, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’ll learn that you don’t have to fight me. I’ll take care of you, in every way you need.”

His words, so confident and sure, left me speechless. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. But deep down, I knew he was right.

I wasn’t ready to admit it yet—not to him, and not to myself—but part of me craved the way he took control. It was maddening, infuriating even, but it was also exhilarating in a way I couldn’t explain.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, Vincent stepped back, giving me some space but not letting me escape the heat of his gaze.

“Think about what you want, Jennifer ,” he said, his tone softer now but no less commanding. “And when you’re ready to stop playing games, come find me. I’ll be waiting.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, my thoughts swirling and my heart racing.

I hated how much I wanted him.

But I also knew it was only a matter of time before I gave in.