Chapter 3 - The Recipe in the DarkVittorio didn’t yell at Leo. He didn’t apologize to Marcus.
Instead, the billionaire simply looked at his brother, his expression chillingly flat. “You’re tracking mud through the house, Marcus. Use the front door next time.”
Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, and stared at Vittorio in utter shock. “You’re defending them? Vittorio, look at this place! They’re animals, and she’s just—she’s enabling—”
“Get out, Marcus,” Vittorio said quietly. It wasn't a request.
Swallowing his pride with a dark, venomous scowl, Marcus turned on his heel and stormed out of the mansion, the heavy front door slamming with a concussion that rattled the crystal chandeliers overhead.
The kitchen returned to a breathless quiet.
Vittorio lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, his gaze shifting from the shattered salt cellar on the floor to Leo, who had buried his face in his arms on the counter. Gently, almost imperceptibly, Vittorio exhaled a long breath, turned, and walked away down the corridor without saying another word.
Serena let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She walked over to Leo and placed a warm hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder.
“Hey,” she murmured softly. “It’s okay. Deep breaths.”
Leo looked up, his dark eyes swimming with unshed tears. “He ruins everything,” the boy whispered. “He tells Dad we should send us to boarding school. He says we’re broken.”
“You’re not broken,” Serena said firmly, crouching down so she was eye-level with him. “You’re just grieving. And you have every right to protect your space.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Now, come on. We have a dinner to finish. If we overcook the pasta, the whole evening is ruined.”
A small, watery ghost of a smile touched the corners of Leo’s mouth.
By seven-fifty-five, the dining room table—a mahogany monster long enough to seat twenty people—was set.
Four bowls of steaming, authentic Roman carbonara sat in front of the boys. The sauce was glossy, emulsified to perfection with pecorino, egg yolks, and rendered guanciale, dusted generously with black pepper. There were no chicken nuggets, no dinosaur-shaped fish sticks, and no hidden vegetables disguised in sugary purees.
Just real food. Made the way their mother used to make it.
Vittorio sat at the head of the table, his plate untouched as he watched his four sons look down at their bowls.
Marco picked up his fork, poked suspiciously at a piece of crispy pork, and took a tentative bite.
For three agonizing seconds, the entire table froze. Julian, Toby, and Leo watched Marco with wide, expectant eyes.
Marco chewed once. Twice. His eyes widened.
“It’s… it’s good,” Marco mumbled around a mouthful of pasta, his cheeks pink. “It actually tastes like Mama’s.”
Instantly, the other three boys dug in with undisguised enthusiasm. Even Toby, the pickiest of the lot, swallowed a large forkful and reached for his glass of water with a satisfied grin.
Vittorio slowly picked up his fork. He took a single bite, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second as the familiar, long-absent flavor hit his palate. When he opened his eyes again, they were fixed on Serena, who stood quietly by the doorway with her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“Eight o'clock,” Vittorio said quietly, checking his watch. “You met the deadline.”
“I told you I would,” Serena replied.
Vittorio stood up, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape against the rug. “Mrs. Chen will show you to the guest suite in the west wing. Your contract starts tonight. Full salary, medical benefits, and accommodations for you and your daughter.”
Serena felt a profound wave of relief wash over her, so heavy she had to grip the doorframe to steady herself. Two weeks. She had steady income. She had housing. She had a fighting chance against Daniel in court.
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“Thank you, Mr. Rinaldi,” she said steadily.
“Don't thank me yet, Miss Valente,” Vittorio said, his voice dropping into a low, warning register as he walked past her toward the hallway. “The children haven't tried to trap you in your bedroom yet. That usually happens around midnight.”
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