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He prattles on about the things he made in class, which are pretty basic kiddie things. Nothing at all on the level that Gia cooks.

Gia seems standoffish as Giovanni rattles off at her. He doesn’t stop but eventually does ask if he can help her. He then sees her video equipment and asks if he can also record making food. Gia watches him warily. I hang back, watching carefully. If she hurts Giovanni's feelings, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

But she relents and points to the basin. “You can rinse off the lettuce, but make sure it rinses off well or we’ll be eating bugs and dirt.”

She crosses her arms as Giovanni runs to the sink and stands on a step stool. She looks at me with a glare, as though this was all my doing.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GIA

The child doesn’t stop babbling as he washes the lettuce. He tells me all about his school and the kind of food they eat there. Matteo keeps smirking, leaning against the doorframe as he watches us. I want to wipe that smirk right off his stupid face. I didn’t even know he had a son. I mean, where the hell did he come from?

The child is under my feet in my kitchen, and I’m just supposed to deal with him? Matteo must be very pleased with himself. He has no right looking so fucking hot while watching his son as though he’s the boy’s entire galaxy.

“And then we made a salad, but I don’t like salad really, not with tomatoes in at least,” the little boy says.

I watch him with my arms still crossed, not saying anything.

“Also, they make the best fried chicken, but I don’t think that’s good for you,” he continues as he puts the washed lettuce in a bowl. “Do you make fried chicken? Do you know how? I can tell you how, but we weren’t allowed to do it ‘cause we’re not big enough to use hot oil yet. They only let us make stuff like hot dogs and stuff.”

I don’t know what to do with him, honestly. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not responding to him.

“I’m Giovanni, by the way. What’s your name?” he asks.

I watch him without answering.

“Gia,” Matteo says eventually.

“Hi, Gia,” Giovanni says.

I give him a tight smile and watch as he potters around the kitchen, talking to Maria about his year in a mix of English and Italian. It’s damn cute, but they’d have to drag me over hot coals or worse before I admit to it.

That child is the spawn of Satan himself, and I’m not going to let him win me over. Even if he’s cute as fuck and super articulate for a six-year-old.

Well, I guess he isn’t going anywhere, so I uncross my arms and continue rolling out the dough again. Working it, folding it, making sure it’s perfect for the bread later.

Giovanni comes over to watch me curiously. “We haven’t made dough things in class. That’s for the bigger kids to do. Next year we get to start making homemade pasta. I already know how, though. Maria taught me.”

I offer him another tight smile. “Really?”

“Yes, and I’m great at it. I could teach you if you like.”

I try not to chuckle at his words. A little kid teaching me how to make homemade pasta. That’s cute.

My skin prickles knowing Matteo is watching this exchange with deep satisfaction. I want to flip him off, but that isn’t appropriate with Giovanni in the room. Don’t want the kid to learn the wrong thing, even if he is the son of the devil.

I don’t relax until Matteo leaves.

Then I drop all pretense and work the dough hard before I set it in the bowl to the side. That needs to rise before I can make bread later.

Giovanni stands near me. “What are you going to do with the dough?”

I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to pick up the hint, and my anger falters. It isn’t the kid's fault who his father is. It’s not like he could pick.

I sigh and answer despite myself, “I’m going to make bread later.”

“Why are you filming yourself?” he asks, pointing to the recording equipment.