Page 13 of Fastest Kill

"You're awake," he said, without turning around. "The floorboard outside the kitchen creaked and gave you away." He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at her. "Go sit down. This is almost ready."

"Don't tell me what to do. This is my mother's kitchen," Frederica said, and then felt like an idiot.

"And your mother is right there letting me use it, so she doesn't care," Dario said and turned back to the stove. "Sit down, Spartana."

Despina looked at her over the coffee mug with an expression that said, 'I have decided he is allowed to cook for us. Sit your ass down.'

"What are you making?" she asked, flopping down at the table. She could argue with her mother later.

"Pasta al pomodoro. Simple. Your mother had everything I needed."

"Frederica didn't mention you can cook," Despina offered helpfully.

"She's never bothered to ask," Dario replied.

Frederica rolled her eyes. "We aren't friends, Mama. I just worked a job with him and Kon. The Colleoni villa has people who just bring you food when it's time to eat. He doesn't need to cook."

"He's not a friend, but you called him to bail you out of jail?" Despina asked.

Dario drained the pasta over the sink. "I think she just wanted to use my plane."

"She's definitely learned her lesson about ever calling you again, that's for sure," Frederica grumbled under her breath.

Despina made a tsch sound with her tongue and gave Frederica a disappointed look.

Frederica was debating walking out of the house and not coming back when Tore appeared from his study.

"Excellent, you are awake finally," he said and kissed the top of her head.

Despina made her set the table, and within ten minutes, there were plates of pasta, bread, and a bottle of wine from Tore's better shelf. He sat, had a mouthful of food, and said, "Good job," which, from Tore, was a standing ovation.

Frederica ate half her plate before she realized how delicious it was.

"Your cooking doesn't suck," she offered, not knowing how to compliment him.

"Thank you," Dario replied and topped up her wine.

"Not a skill I thought you would have."

"It comes in handy," was all he said. He was more careful and guarded in having a conversation with her than with her mother. Typical.

Frederica had thought Dario was charming, capable, difficult, and occasionally useful. Not someone who stood at a stove with quiet concentration and made something from scratch.

"Who taught you?" Despina asked him with a smile.

Dario broke a piece of bread. "I taught myself mostly. We had a cook when I was growing up. She would let me watch sometimes if I stayed out of the way. My mother didn't see much value in it. She wanted us focused on other things."

"What other things?" Despina pressed on, and Frederica was glad she was focused on interrogating him, not her.

"The family business, what else?" he said simply, without bitterness, which somehow made it worse. "Everything that she could use for her empire. She had other people to cook."

Despina didn't push, because she had years of knowing exactly when to let silence do the work. Frederica had grown up watching her do it to other people. It was deeply unpleasant to watch her do it to Dario.

He looked at his pasta. He didn't need to give them any more information. They all knew Gabriella had measured her sons by what they could do for the family, not by who they were outside of it. She had no use for a son who found peace in a kitchen. Peace was not their business.

Frederica ate another forkful and said nothing. She would just cause an argument without meaning to, because that was how all of her conversations with Dario went.

"So," Despina said pleasantly, "I want to know how you two actually met. You said it was work, Frederica, but I want the story."