Chapter 43
Aldo
Afternoon light streamed through the oversized windows of the manor as I made my way from my office to the kitchen, drawn by the very distinct smell of Melissa Marcello’s cooking.
I had not one but two personal chefs—and still, my mother’s cooking was better. She didn’t venture into the kitchen as often as she once had, though. So my quest for the cooking wasn’t so much driven by hunger as curiosity.
My footsteps faltered just outside the doorway when I caught the distinct high tones of Eli’s laughter. A softer, more familiar voice mingled in with that beautiful chime.
Curious, I peeked in.
The scene laid out across the kitchen nearly made me faint.
Eli stood on a step-stool, stirring a large ceramic bowl with a wooden spoon. Like everything he did, this too was executed with careful precision and attention to detail; not a drop of batter found its way from the bowl.
Beside him, my mother cracked eggs one-handed into a smaller bowl with the careless efficiency of an expert.
“Nonna, like this?” Eli asked, his brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully scooped flour into the mix.
And without batting an eyelash, my mother—Nonna!—leaned over to observe. A smile, a goddamned smile, tugged at her normally stern mouth.
“Perfetto, Eli,” Melissa said with curt approval. “Just like that. You’ll be cooking all our meals in no time.”
I was so astonished by the matronly warmth of my mother coaching an eight-year-old in her sacred kitchen, I almost didn’t notice the third occupant of the room.
On the far side of the long counter, Layla leaned against the pantry, watching with an unreadable expression. Like maybe she, too, was trying to determine how she felt about the scene laid out before us like a painting.
Frankly, it was adorable. The older Italian woman tutting her approval at the young boy with flour in his hair and eager determination in every movement.
But my eyes lingered on Layla.
In the week since Eli’s project and our dinner discussion, Layla and I had met daily for sparring sessions. She improved in leaps and bounds—truly, impressive.
We didn’t talk much, but still, my every nerve sang at her proximity. When I pressed in close to demonstrate a maneuver or practice a hold, it was like the rest of the world ceased to exist.
My heart sang at the warmth of her body, the firmness of muscle beneath taught, smooth skin. Even now, with an entire kitchen between us, it was like no space existed at all.
I was moving before I’d decided I’d be the one to make a move. “Looks like I’m missing out on all the fun!”
Melissa glanced up towards me, and I swear I’d never seen such a soft, motherly smile on her face before. “Aldo! We’re making ciambelle. Eli wanted to make something sweet.”
“Donuts are my favorite,” Eli said, tilting his head up to offer me a shy smile.
“Ciambelle are not donuts,” my mother corrected, but gently. It was a tone I’d never heard from her before. “They’re much better.”
I glanced up, only to find Layla looking right back at me. She still wore that same unreadable expression, made perhaps only enigmatic by my sudden arrival.
“You know,” I looked back down at Eli, “you have flour on your cheek?”
I hesitated only an instant, then lifted a finger to swipe at the aforementioned streak of flour.
Eli grinned, and batted my hand away. “Nonna says making messes is part of cooking.”
My eyes flicked to my mother, but she diligently avoided my gaze by focusing on her mixing bowl. Who was this strange woman occupying my mother’s body?
“Well, she’s not wrong.” I slid away from Eli and Melissa to approach Layla instead. She watched me coming with the flighty caution of a skittish horse, but she didn’t bolt or move away as I leaned up against the cupboard beside her.
Eli and Nonna went back to their mixing, and I dropped my voice so only Layla could hear. “So, what do you think of … all this?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t expect it. I got home from work and … there they were.”
“That’s my mother for you,” I admitted, and for the first time I saw the flip side to her unyielding determination. “When she decides something is important, there’s no stopping her.
Layla’s gaze stayed fixed on the pastry chefs. Melissa showed Eli how to press a rolling pin evenly over the dough. Eli watched intently, and when she handed over the pin, his small hands mimicked her movements with impressive focus.
“She’s good with him,” Layla admitted.
I opted not to comment with my own surprise. “She values family. Above all else.”
Layla didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on Eli, still rolling away while Melissa watched, occasionally leaning in to offer a correction. I wonder if she, too, had to keep reminding herself that Melissa was a hardened Mafia wife.
It was something I never imagined I might forget.
“You want to take a walk?” I asked. “Give them some privacy? We’re watching them harder than Melissa’s watching Eli.”
Layla laughed a little at that. “Yeah. We probably should.”
I led the way from the kitchen, surprised when she actually followed me down the hall towards the courtyard.
“Why is your mother really here?” she asked as we strode out onto the white-stone pathway.
Ah. I should have known she had an ulterior motive.
“Honestly?” I slid my hands into my pockets with a shrug. “I have no idea. She’s the one person in this family who doesn’t answer to me—to anybody.”
“What does she want with Eli?” Layla stopped walking to regard me with a serious stare. “I’m not stupid, Aldo. I know how much your family values bloodlines—inheritance, legacy.”
I winced. She certainly wasn’t wrong.
“Yes,” I admitted because at some point, we’d left the time for lies in our wake. But that didn’t make the truth easy. “But what we just saw in the kitchen has nothing to do with that.”
Layla’s brows shot skyward. “No?”
“That was a different kind of family,” I murmured. “My mother didn’t come from the Mafia; she came from Italia.”
“I see.” Layla’s voice tightened. “And what about you? What is Eli to you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “To me? Eli is my son. Legacy and bloodlines mean nothing to me.”
Layla had no response to that.
That night, I found my mother in the living room, nestled in with oversized balls of yarn. Her knitting needles clicked softly as I approached, and though she half-turned her head at my approach, her hands didn’t falter for an instant.
“You and Eli looked quite cozy today,” I noted as I perched in the armchair beside her.
Those needles clicked away. “Should a nonna not spend time with her grandson?”
“He’s not my heir,” I said, slowly, firmly. So she couldn’t deny her understanding of this conversation later on. “You know that, right?”
Her head snapped up towards me, gaze sharp. “Of course I know that. You’re not married to Layla, how could he be? But that doesn't make him any less our family. Nor Layla.”
My fingers clenched tight around my knees. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. Was that true—was Layla our family now? Whether either of us liked it or not?
“Bloodlines are different from family,” my mother murmured, so soft I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. “Soon, you’ll marry and produce an heir. That’s not important here. Eli is family, and that’s something you should never stop fighting for.”
Her words settled heavily in my chest, like black crows come to roost inside my ribs. She was right. He was family—and there was nothing in the world that would make me stop fighting for him.
For him, and for Layla.
