Page 11 of The Mafioso’s Bride

“No. They don't have a respiratory system. Oxygen passes through the surface of their bodies.”

I return to my toast. “Interesting.”

“Yes.” Her fingertip traces the tablecloth beside her plate. “They have a mouthpart called a buccal apparatus. It contains stylets that pierce plant cells or tiny organisms so the tardigrade can eat.”

I take a drink of coffee, and when I can’t hold the question back any longer, I finally ask, “What in God's name is a tardigrade?”

Her face changes. Her brows rise, and her lower jaw drops.

“They're microscopic animals. People call them water bears because their bodies are plump and they walk with a lumbering motion. They live almost everywhere there is water, even if it's only a thin film around moss.” She brings her hands above the table, holding her thumb and forefinger close together. “Most are less than a millimeter long, so you need a microscope to look at them properly. They aren't insects. They're their own phylum.”

I reach for my coffee. “A phylum of nearly invisible bears.”

“Water bears,” she corrects. “They don't have fur, and they aren't related to bears.”

“That would have been my next question.”

“Would it?” Her brows pull together.

“No.” I smile. And then my smile turns into a laugh.

A sharp intake of breath draws my attention to Susan, my housekeeper. Her expression is contorted in shock, her eyebrows raised so high they almost touch her hairline.

“Is there a problem, Susan?” I ask.

“No, sir.” She refills the coffee carafe. “It’s just…I’ve never seen you laugh before.”

Is that true?

“I laugh,” I counter. Susan, who has worked for me for nine years, makes a sound that might be a cough.

Giada asks if I’d like her to tell me more about tardigrades.

I should finish my coffee and leave. There are two missing loyalists, and half a city is being searched for Giuseppe Lombardi and Antonio Rafinelli.

“Yes.”

She tells me how tardigrades shed their outer covering as they grow and leave their eggs inside it. She explains the difference between active tardigrades and tuns, then corrects the common claim that they can survive anything. Heat can kill them. Long exposure matters. The conditions of the experiment matter.

Each fact leads into another. She doesn't check whether I'm impressed—or even listening. She doesn't steer the conversation toward anything she wants from me. She talks because the subject delights her. Her brown eyes brighten. Her lips move faster when she reaches a point she loves. I should be planning how to drag two traitors out of hiding. Instead, I’m picturing that beutiful mouth under mine.

Her tea remains untouched. So does the croissant. When I stand, Giada stops midway through an explanation about moss samples.

“I’m sorry. I’d love to stay and continue this conversation, but I have to get to work.”

Would I really, though? Would I love to stay and continue listening to her monologue about water bears?

I nearly laugh again—twice in one morning. Twice in one month—because, yes, I would.

This morning, I expected typical gossipy conversation about who’s having an affair with whom, who wore last year’s designer fashion to whatever function, and who’s undergone the latest plastic surgery procedure.

I did not expect…to enjoy myself.

She lowers her hands to her lap. “All right.”

I leave before I succub to the urge to lean across the table and steal a taste of her plump, lush mouth. Or thow her over my shoulder and take her⁠—

I go upstairs to collect my phone and Glock. Her bedroom door stands open, and the small white suitcase sits beside the dresser where I left it. One suitcase is all she brought. No garment bags, boxes, or other luggage. It’s a reminder.