Chapter 6 - BROKEN GLASS AND LEMON ZESTThe silence in the armored limousine on the ride back to Long Island was absolute.
I sat pressed against the leather seat, staring at my trembling hands. The adrenaline was beginning to crash, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror. I had seen men with guns before in movies; I had never stood in a room where fifty people were ready to die over a name.
Matteo poured two fingers of amber bourbon from the crystal decanter in the armrest and handed it to me.
"Drink," he ordered softly.
"I don't drink hard liquor."
"Drink it anyway."
I took the glass and swallowed a burning mouthful. It seared my throat, but the warmth helped steady the frantic drumbeat in my chest.
"You're a monster," I whispered, staring out the tinted window at the rain-streaked highway.
"I am what is required to keep that girl alive," Matteo answered without hesitation. "Moretti killed her father because my brother was soft. He thought he could negotiate with hyenas. He ended up burned inside his car outside a restaurant in Florence. I will not make the same mistake with Sofia."
"And using me? Using my grandfather’s name?"
Matteo was quiet for a long stretch of road. The only sound was the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers.
"When you threw that flour at me," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet, "it was the first time in ten years anyone treated me like an ordinary man. Not a target. Not a boss. Just an arrogant idiot who needed to be put in his place."
I turned my head to look at him. His face was turned toward the dark glass, the neon lights of the highway casting blue and gold shadows across his hard profile.
"You are an arrogant idiot," I said.
A genuine smile—small, crooked, and unexpectedly warm—softened his mouth. "I know."
We arrived back at the estate well past two in the morning. The grand house was quiet, save for the faint glow of light spilling from the massive commercial kitchen at the rear of the property.
I slipped off the painful high heels, carrying them by the straps as I walked down the marble corridor toward the kitchen.
Standing beside the butcher block was Sofia.
She was still wearing her nightgown, her dark hair tangled around her shoulders. On the wooden counter sat a bowl of eggs, a bag of sugar, and three lemons. She was staring at them with helpless frustration, a single tear cutting through the dust on her cheek.
"They're too hard," she whispered, not looking up as I entered. "I tried to squeeze them, but nothing comes out."
My heart broke right there on the cold tiles. I set my heels on the floor and walked over to her.
"You have to roll them first," I said softly, picking up one of the lemons. "Like this. Press down with your palm until you feel the membranes give way inside. That’s how you release the juice."
Sofia watched my hands, her breath coming in small, hitched rhythms. She took another lemon, copied my movement, pressing her small weight into the yellow fruit.
"My mother used to make lemon cake when the winter was bad," Sofia whispered. "She said it tasted like sunlight."
"Your mother was right," I said, reaching for a chef's knife. "Come on. Let’s make sunlight."
For the next two hours, the violence at the St. Regis ceased to exist. We zested lemons until our knuckles smelled like citrus. We whipped egg whites until they formed stiff, glossy peaks. Sofia’s silent tears dried up, replaced by the faint smudge of flour on her nose and the quiet, rhythmic humming of a child who had found her way back to the shore.
When the cake finally went into the massive Wolf oven, Sofia leaned against the counter, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion.
"Emily?" she asked softly.
"Yeah?"
"Are you really his girlfriend?"
I looked up from wiping the counter, caught completely unprepared. Before I could formulate an answer, I saw Matteo standing in the arched doorway of the kitchen.
He had removed his jacket and tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He was leaning against the stone doorframe, watching us with an expression so intensely tender it made my breath hitch in my chest.
"Go to bed, Sofia," Matteo said gently, stepping into the room. "The cake will be cool by morning."
The girl nodded sleepily, hugged my waist with unexpected fierce affection, and slipped past her uncle out into the hall.
Matteo walked over to where I stood by the oven, looking down at the flour on my hands, on my silk dress, on my bare feet.
"You missed your calling," he murmured. "You should have been an ambassador."
May you like
"Ambassadors don't smell like vanilla," I said, unable to pull my gaze away from his.
He reached out, his thumb gently catching a stray lock of hair that had fallen across my cheek, tucking it behind my ear with infinite care. "No," he whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, dangerous register that made my pulse race. "They smell like politics. You smell like home."
