Chapter 8

I stood in Dante's office doorway that morning, watching him read through contracts. He didn't look up, but his fingers stopped moving across the keyboard.

"About last night," I started.

He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. The silence stretched between us like a living thing.

"Would you like to sit?" he asked finally.

I gripped the doorframe. "I need to tell you something."

More silence. Patient. Undemanding.

"I—" The words stuck. "I need to check something first."

He looked up then. "Take your time."

I retreated to the kitchen. Cooking had always helped me think, even in Luca's house where Clarissa criticized every meal. The familiar motions might help order my thoughts.

I found the recipe card while unpacking kitchen boxes. It was tucked into an old cookbook, the paper soft and stained. Sophia Moretti's handwriting flowed across it: Rigatoni alla Vodka. Below, in different handwriting: More vodka. Less cream. - L.

Luca had mentioned this dish once. "Nonna taught all the wives to make it," he'd said. "Even Louise managed not to ruin it." He'd laughed then, the same way he laughed when telling me about his mother's "special" Sunday dinners—the ones I was never quite good enough to replicate.

The garlic sizzled in olive oil. Two hours now, I'd been in this kitchen, trying to gather courage that kept slipping away. Dante worked in his office, the soft sound of typing a steady rhythm.

My hand brushed my stomach unconsciously. Another memory surfaced: Clarissa's face when I'd tried to tell her about the first pregnancy. Her smile had been knife-sharp.

"Such wonderful news," she'd said, gripping my arm at the top of the stairs. "Though perhaps we should wait to tell Luca. First pregnancies can be so... precarious."

I'd woken up in the hospital. Luca holding my hand, believing his mother's story about my clumsiness in heels.

A wave of nausea rolled through me. I gripped the counter, waiting for it to pass. The bathroom was too far.

"You're doing it wrong."

I hadn't heard Louise come in. She stood in the kitchen entrance, a bottle of wine in one hand, keycard in the other. Her red dress made my grey sweater feel intentionally inadequate.

"The garlic needs to be sliced, not chopped." She set the wine down, shrugging off her coat. "Sophia was very particular about that."

Dante appeared in the hallway. "Louise."

"Don't act surprised. You knew I still had a key." She moved to the wine rack, selecting glasses with familiar ease. "I thought we could all have dinner. Like old times."

"There are no old times here."

"No?" She poured the wine. "Then why is your fiancée making my recipe?"

"Your recipe?"

"Well, Sophia's technically. But I perfected it." She settled at the kitchen island, crossed her legs. "Did Dante tell you about the weekend she taught me? Florence, wasn't it, darling?"

Dante's jaw tightened. "Louise—"

"Three days in that kitchen." She sipped her wine. "Remember? You were closing the Martinez deal. I had blisters from chopping garlic wrong."

She moved to the stove, peering into my pot. "The sauce needs more vodka. Sophia always said the secret was cooking the alcohol completely out." Her hand brushed mine as she reached for the bottle. "Did you know Dante proposed to me in that kitchen? Right after I finally got the recipe right."

"That's enough," Dante said quietly.

"Oh, I'm just getting started." She stirred the sauce. "Remember New Year's in St. Moritz? The fireworks over the lake? You wore that cashmere sweater I bought you."

Each memory landed with surgical precision. I recognized the strategy—death by a thousand small cuts.

"The villa still has those lemon trees?" Her eyes found mine. "Has he taken you there yet? The view of the bay is spectacular at sunset. We used to have the most amazing dinner parties."

I focused on the cutting board, the steady rhythm of the knife.

"The Ambassador's wife," Louise continued, "what was her name? The one who decided to swim to Capri after too much prosecco?"

"Elena," Dante said quietly.

"Elena! That's right. You had to send Antonio with the boat." She laughed. "You were wearing that blue shirt I bought you in Milan."

The pasta water boiled over. I moved to lower the heat, but Louise beat me to it.

"Let me help. I know this kitchen so well." She reached past me for the salt. "Remember that midnight snack after the Venetian masked ball? When we couldn't wait for the sauce to cook properly?"

"Or Monaco?" She tilted her head. "Monaco was special, wasn't it?"

My stomach lurched. This time I couldn't hold it back. I made it to the guest bathroom, barely.

The door opened behind me. Dante's hand settled on my back.

"Here." He offered a glass of water when I was done.

I sat on the floor, back against the cool tile. "I'm pregnant."

The words hung there, simple and heavy.

He stayed quiet.

"It's Luca's."

More silence. Then: "When's your next appointment?"

I looked up. His expression hadn't changed.

"Thursday."

"I'll be there."

"Just like that?"

"Yes." He sat next to me on the floor. "Just like that."

When we returned to the kitchen, Louise was plating the pasta. She'd found Dante's expensive dishes—the ones I hadn't unpacked yet.

"Everything alright?" Her concern would have seemed genuine if not for the gleam in her eyes.

"Fine," Dante said. "You should go."

"But dinner's ready." She gestured to the table she'd set. "And we have so many more stories to share."

"Another time."

She picked up her purse, slow and deliberate. "You know where to find me. When you're ready to hear the rest."

At the door, she paused. "The sauce needed more vodka, by the way. But you'll learn. It took me years to get it right."

Her heels clicked down the hallway. A phone chimed in the distance.

I stared at the perfectly set table, the steam rising from plates we wouldn't eat from.

"We should clean up," I said.

"Leave it." Dante's hand found mine. "I'll order something else."

Tomorrow would come soon enough. But tonight, we had simpler things to handle. Like what to do with too much vodka sauce, and whether Louise still had other keys we didn't know about.