Chapter 23 - The Unwritten Pact
|
Twenty minutes later, the grand kitchen of the DeLuca estate was filled with the rich aroma of simmering garlic, ripe tomatoes, and fresh basil.
Lorenzo stood at the stove wearing a plain linen apron over his designer shirt, gripping a wooden spoon with far too much intensity. Isabella sat on a high stool at the marble kitchen island, holding a glass of red wine and offering unsolicited critiques of his cooking technique.
"You're scorching the garlic," she noted calmly.
"I am searing the garlic," Lorenzo corrected stiffly, stirring the pan faster.
"Searing is for steak, Lorenzo. Garlic burns."
"It is fine."
"It's going to taste bitter."
"Isabella," he turned around, pointing the wooden spoon at her, "who is the executive chef in this kitchen right now?"
"The man currently ruining a basic marinara sauce," she replied without missing a beat, taking a calm sip of her wine.
Lorenzo stared at her for three long seconds before letting out a defeated sigh, turning back to the stove, and lowering the flame. Isabella chuckled softly behind him.
This was basic adulthood. It was ordinary, unscripted, and entirely mundane.
Years ago, an evening like this would have felt dangerously boring to a man like Lorenzo DeLuca—a man who lived on high alert, constantly monitoring encrypted lines, scanning room perimeters, and managing crisis after crisis.
Now, this absolute mundanity felt like the ultimate luxury.
There were no hidden wiretaps planted in the light fixtures. There were no armed guards standing behind the dining chairs. There were no court summonses waiting on the hall table, no emergency hospital visits, and no fake graves sitting under the moonlight in a lonely cemetery.
There was no one hiding. No one was filtering their phone calls. No one was terrified of expressing a disagreement.
When the pasta was finally finished—slightly overcooked, but entirely edible—Lorenzo plated two dishes and brought them to the small dining nook near the garden window.
Isabella poured two glasses of Chianti and raised hers into the soft candlelight.
"To Emma," Isabella toasted softly.
Lorenzo raised his glass, clinking it against hers. "To Emma."
"To Bruno," Isabella added.
"To Bruno," Lorenzo echoed.
Isabella looked into his eyes, her expression turning solemn. "To Claire."
Lorenzo nodded slowly, his voice dropping to a respectful whisper. "To Claire."
He paused, looking at his wife, before adding one final line:
"To questions."
Isabella smiled warmly. "And answers?"
"Only after the evidence is verified," Lorenzo replied dryly.
Isabella laughed out loud. "Rachel’s legal training really did ruin you, didn't it?"
May you like
Lorenzo smiled softly, taking a sip of his wine. "Yes. Thankfully."
---
