I should have said no. I should have told her I had business to deal with. Somehow it seemed wrong to contaminate this simple, happy scene with my darkness. Instead, my stomach, hollow from stress and violence, betrayed me. “Thank you. Let me go shower and I’ll be down.”
After washing off the memories of the afternoon I changed and headed back to my kitchen. Rather than eat in the dining room, Sarah had set our places on the island. She plated food with quiet efficiency, slid a portion onto a smaller plate for Alexis, and set it in front of her.
Alexis took one bite and declared, “Yum,” like she was an expert.
I sat at the other end of the island. Sarah served me last, putting the plate down carefully, not meeting my eyes. After our moment in the back room at Alina’s earlier on, things werecharged between us. I think Sarah felt it too, because when our hands brushed briefly, she almost jumped.
I let out a chuckle.
She gave me a heated look.
The food was simple. Noodles, a rich tomato sauce, and a sprinkle of cheese. It shouldn’t have been remarkable. It shouldn’t have mattered.
It did.
It warmed my chest in a way alcohol never managed.
For a few minutes, the only sounds were forks against plates and Alexis’s happy chatter about everything and nothing. Despite almost being grabbed at the gym, she was remarkably resilient. In fact she reminded me a little of myself at that age. Once more I was struck at how homey it all felt. Like these two were meant to be in my house and my life.
Finally Alexis yawned so widely her whole face scrunched. Sarah’s attention snapped to her instantly.
“Okay,” Sarah said, gentle but firm. “Bedtime.”
“No,” Alexis protested, but it was weak. The kind of protest children offered when they knew they were beaten.
Sarah cleaned her hands and lifted Alexis down, brushing hair off her forehead. “Come on. We’ll pick out a story.”
“Goodnight, Mitri” she said breezily.
“Goodnight,zayka.”
Sarah’s eyes flicked up. There was a warmth there that touched something deep in my soul.
I listened to their footsteps fade down the hall. Listened to the low murmur of Sarah’s voice upstairs, the soft rise and fall of a story. Listened to silence settle back into the house.
When Sarah returned, she moved slower. Like someone who’d been running all day and had finally stopped, only to feel the aches.
She walked into the kitchen, saw me still sitting there, and paused.
“You didn’t go to your office this afternoon after you left the restaurant,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.
“I was… busy,” I replied.
Her gaze narrowed, and she didn’t ask what I’d been busy doing. She didn’t want the answer. Maybe she already guessed. I had to talk to her. I needed to know what she planned on saying tomorrow on the stand. This domesticity, the sweet moments between mother and daughter… If she lied, as the Italians wanted her to, it could jeopardize everything for her. I wasn’t afraid of jail, for a man like me it was an occupational hazard—though one I had thus far managed to avoid—but for Sarah to perjure herself, I couldn’t allow it.
I gestured to the stool across from me. “Sit.”
She hesitated. Then she sat, folding her hands in her lap like she was bracing for impact.
We stared at each other for a moment. I wanted to take her into my arms. Feel her soft lips, caress those curves, and bury myself between her welcoming thighs.
But now was not the time.
I rubbed my hand over my jaw. I could still feel the day under my skin. The weight of it. The way the man’s voice hadcracked when he insisted he didn’t know the Don’s full plan, only that he was to scare Sarah into doing what he wanted.
The idea of Sarah on a witness stand, being forced to lie, made something in me go cold.
“Tomorrow,” I started. Sarah looked up, her eyes meeting mine. “What are you planning on saying?” I asked.