Born in Blood Collection Volume 1 - Cora Reilly Page 0,175

been very close to Gianna, so the request surprised me. “Wouldn’t it be better if Aria talked to Gianna? After all, she’s married to another Vitiello.”

“Gianna won’t listen to her sister. I think someone who isn’t immediate family might have a better chance to get through to her.” I was Gianna’s cousin, but of course he had a point.

“I can try, of course, but I can’t promise that she’ll listen to what I have to say.”

“Try is all you can do,” he said, looking almost resigned.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to address?”

“Maybe you can tell her that marriage doesn’t mean she’ll be trapped in a golden cage? I mean, look at you, you’re even allowed to work.”

I did, but I was the huge exception. Gianna would know that as well. And even if Dante started pushing his men to let their wives work, that wouldn’t help Gianna. She’d be living under the Vitiellos’ rule in New York. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you and your family come to dinner tomorrow?”

“That’s a great idea. That way Gianna won’t get suspicious and you can breach the subject casually.” We set up a time before he inclined his head in thanks once more and walked out.

I closed the door and headed toward the kitchen. Zita was preparing dinner—cannelloni filled with ricotta from the looks of it—when I stepped in. Gaby was ironing Dante’s shirts in a corner of the kitchen, far enough from the cooking that there was no risk of the fabric absorbing the smell.

“Zita, I invited the Scuderis for dinner tomorrow.”

Zita pursed her lips. “A bit more time to prepare would have been nice. I need to go grocery shopping, figure out a menu and then cook everything.”

“I know, but you won’t be cooking.”

Zita’s lips parted but no words came out. Gaby had stopped ironing to stare at me as well.

“I’m going to take care of everything. I used to cook frequently in my first marriage, and I want to prepare dinner for our guests.”

“Are you sure that’s wise? They expect a certain standard.”

“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

“And what are you going to cook?” Zita asked skeptically.

I smiled. “That’s a surprise. Now I’ll let you get back to your work.” With a wink toward Gaby, who was openly gawking, I left the kitchen and headed for Dante’s office and knocked.

“Come in.”

I slipped inside. Dante was busy cleaning his guns. They were arranged on a towel on his desk. “I invited Rocco Scuderi and his family for dinner for tomorrow night. I hope that’s all right with you?”

He barely spared me a look. He was obviously still angry with me. “I assume this is so you can talk with his daughter Gianna?”

“He asked you first, didn’t he?”

“I’m your husband. Rocco wanted to make sure it was okay to approach you.”

Sometimes their unwritten rules and traditions drove me up the wall. “Of course.”

“Don’t forget to tell Zita and Gaby, so they can prepare everything for our guests.” He rubbed a spot of grease at the barrel of his gun.

“I already did. But I will cook dinner myself.”

That made him raise his eyes, surprise flickering across his face. “You can cook?”

“Yes. I used to cook often in my first marriage,” I said, and that was obviously the wrong thing to say because Dante’s expression darkened again. “You haven’t found Frank yet?”

“No. We haven’t. He’s probably gone into hiding if he has any sense.”

Hovering next to the door, I nodded. Though I could tell the discussion was over for Dante, I hated how strained things had become between us. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but then I lost my nerve and left without another word.

* * *

I hadn’t realized how much I missed cooking until I stood behind the stove again. Zita was a constant presence at my back, hawk-eyes watching my every move, but I was confident in what I was doing. I had cooked every part of today’s meal countless times. Vitello Tonnato for starters, followed by Saltimbocca with homemade gnocchi and a green salad, and at last, Tiramisu. As I worked in silence beside Gaby and Zita, I could occasionally glimpse the hint of approval in the older woman’s expression. I mixed everything for the sauce that accompanied the cooked veal for the starter before turning to Zita. “Would you try it? I’d like to know if it’s good.”

I knew it was how it was supposed to be, but I wanted to show