Page 45 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“What else would I be doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses to the kitchen and starts unpacking the bag. Containers emerge one after another: pasta and garlic bread, salad, and something chocolatey.

“I got Italian,” he calls out. “From that place on Taylor Street.”

I sit up straighter. “Mario’s?”

“That’s the one.”

I slide off the couch and pad barefoot to the kitchen. The smell of rich tomato sauce is unmistakable. It’s been years since I’ve had Mario’s. Since before Dmitri, maybe.

“How did you know that was my favorite?” I ask.

Roman is pulling plates from the cabinet. He doesn’t look at me when he answers. “I took a guess.”

My stomach flutters as I sit down at the breakfast bar.

Right. That makes sense, I suppose.

I watch him spoon pasta onto a plate. He’s dressed in his usual dark clothes, but they look rumpled now. It’s disarming seeing Roman anything less than perfect, but he looks good like this.

“Where were you today?” I ask.

“Handling things.”

“What kind of things?”

“The kind that don’t concern you.”

The words sting, but I let them go. I’m too tired to fight about it.

We eat at the kitchen island, which has so much space because there’s absolutely no decoration. The penthouse is beautiful but sparse, as if no one actually lives here.

The pasta is perfect, of course. It’s rich and savory, with just the right amount of heat. I close my eyes as I take the first bite, letting the familiar taste wash over me.

“This is amazing,” I say.

Roman watches me eat with an expression I can’t quite read. “You like it?”

I take another bite. “My mother used to take me to Mario’s on special occasions.”

“Your mother?”

It’s not a true question, but I answer anyway. “She died when I was sixteen. Cancer.” I push a piece of pasta around my plate. “She was the one who taught me to love food. Not just eating it, but cooking it, sharing it. She said meals were how people connect.”

“Sounds like she was wise.”

“She was.” I glance up at him. “What about you, did your mother cook?”

I don’t know why I even asked. Roman has never offered up information unless he wants to. I look at him, anyway, biting the inside of my cheek as I wait for his reply.

Something shifts in his expression. There’s a tightening around his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“My mother died when I was young,” he says. “I don’t remember much about her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” He takes a bite of his own food, chewing slowly. “My childhood wasn’t like yours. There were no special occasions or family meals.”