Chapter 4 - THE KITCHEN HE HADN'T ENTERED
The kitchen renovation began the following Monday.
Not a complete reconstruction.
Just practical changes.
A lower preparation surface.
Accessible storage.
More space beneath the counter.
Safer positioning near the sink.
Massimo objected to every suggestion.
"You're destroying a perfectly good kitchen."
I looked at him.
"Then why haven't you used it in seven months?"
He glared.
Marco, standing nearby, turned away to hide a smile.
Massimo noticed.
"Something funny?"
"No, boss."
I folded my arms.
"Good. Then let's discuss the countertop height."
Three days later, Massimo entered the kitchen for the first time since Sofia's death.
The staff had cleared the room.
Only Camila, who had come to visit, and I remained nearby.
Massimo stopped at the doorway.
His hands tightened around the wheelchair rims.
I didn't rush him.
He looked around.
The copper pots.
The enormous stove.
The marble island.
Then his gaze settled on a small blue ceramic bowl near the window.
His expression changed.
"Sofia bought that."
I followed his gaze.
"It's beautiful."
He nodded.
"She said it made the kitchen look less like a hotel."
He laughed softly.
Then looked at me.
"What are we making?"
I smiled.
"Pasta."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Original."
"Your sister would approve."
His face softened.
We made a simple tomato sauce.
Massimo chopped basil at the lowered counter.
I handled the stove when necessary.
He insisted on tasting everything.
"More salt."
I added a little.
"More."
I shook my head.
"You haven't even tasted it again."
He looked offended.
"I'm Italian."
"That doesn't make you a sodium expert."
Camila burst out laughing.
Massimo stared at her.
Then laughed too.
For twenty minutes, the kitchen felt ordinary.
Not like a fortress.
Not like the headquarters of a feared criminal organization.
Just a place where people cooked dinner.
When the pasta was ready, Massimo took the first bite.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, I thought something was wrong.
Then he whispered, "Sofia would've hated this."
I stared.
He smiled through tears.
"She liked everything overcooked."
I laughed.
He laughed too.
And the room filled with something the Pascale mansion hadn't heard in months.
Joy.
That evening, Massimo asked me to stay after dinner.
We sat near the garden windows.
He looked unusually serious.
"Tessa."
"Yes?"
"Why did you take this job?"
I hesitated.
"Money."
He smiled faintly.
"At least you're honest."
I looked down.
"My doctoral program."
He studied me.
"You're a student?"
"A doctoral candidate."
"What happened?"
I swallowed.
"Tuition."
He nodded.
"How much?"
I shook my head.
"That's private."
He leaned back.
"You're working for me."
"That doesn't make my financial life your business."
He looked surprised.
Then smiled.
"Fair enough."
Silence.
After a moment, he asked:
"Do you regret coming here?"
I considered.
"No."
His expression changed.
"Not even a little?"
I smiled.
"Ask me after tomorrow's therapy session."
May you like
He laughed.
And I realized I was beginning to look forward to hearing that sound.
