Page 39 of Mafia And Maid

I shake my head. “I can’t dance and cook while you watch me,” I exclaim in horror.

He narrows his eyes at me and gives a small sigh. “I’ll sit in the breakfast nook, facing away from you. I’ll do some work on my phone.But I’ll be able to smell if anything’s burning.” He glares at me. “Because you’ve managed to burn something in every single meal you’ve made so far. And as you’re staying, you need to stop ruining every fucking meal.”

I take a big gulp. “I’m staying?” I murmur. I can’t have heard that right.

He gives a sharp nod but still doesn’t smile. “You helped us the other night—getting the bullets out and stitching the wounds. You proved your loyalty.”

“I really wasn’t trying to kill you with the raw chicken,” I blurt out. Shit, why did I bring up the disastrous chicken?

“I know.”

“You do?” I’m holding my breath. He could still change his mind.

“Yeah. If you really wanted to kill one of us, you would have let Alessio bleed out...or at the very least, put poison in one of our meals by now.”

It’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him.Is he mocking me? Does Mr. Marco Marchiano have a sliver of a sense of humor lurking beneath his steely exterior?

“You better get started,” he drawls. “My brothers will be home in fifty minutes.”

I watch him walk to the breakfast nook, and as promised, he sits with his back to me, taking out his phone and dealing with what looks like emails.

I collect the ingredients I'll need and stand in front of the kitchen counter while my fingers grip the edge as I stare at the things laid out in front of me. Beef, mushrooms, onions, garlic, sour cream, plus a few other things I'll need.

Despite what Marco’s just said to me, my nerves are winning by a landslide.

My hands tremble as I tie the apron over me, delaying starting by smoothing down the crisp fabric to steady myself. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe, in and out, deep and slow. But whatever I do, my stomach’s still in knots.

“Forty-five minutes, Rosa,” Marco says in a terse tone, unhelpfully reminding me that the time is ticking by. “Imagine that you’re the only one this meal’s for. And for God’s sake, get some music on.”

I clear my throat and grab my phone. Scrolling through the screen, I choose an upbeat playlist—something that will keep my mind off my anxiety.

As the music fills the kitchen, I chop the onions. I keep peeking up at Marco, but true to his word, he’s staying faced away from me.

Biting my lip, I start to move a little, just a sway of my hips and a tap of my foot here and there, all the time making sure that Marco doesn’t go back on his word. As each song finishes, the next one on the playlist starts automatically.

After a while, I’m confident that he meant what he said, and I let the rhythm take over. My feet shuffle across the tiled floor, my body swaying, turning, twisting to the beat. The tension in my shoulders melts away, and my hands become steadier, more confident.

The sizzle of the beef hitting the hot pan blends with the music, and I stir the pieces around, browning them to perfection. I can feel myself smiling, my earlier nerves starting to fade as I focus on the task at hand. The music is like a shield, something that can block out my worries and my fears of making a mistake.

The scent of garlic and onions fill the air around me as they sauté. I put on the rice to cook and make a salad. I move to the fridge, still dancing after grabbing another quick peek at Marco, and select the mustard. Twirling around, I return to the stove, and I’m in my own little world. I don’t even think about who’s going to eat this meal. It feels like it's just me in the kitchen, cooking, dancing, and feeling free.

The stroganoff is coming together beautifully, the sauce thick and creamy as it should be, while the meat is tender and flavorful. I add a few finishing touches with a sprinkle of parsley and a dash of pepper, all while moving and spinning in time with the music. The kitchen feels alive, full of warmth and energy, and for a moment, I forget about everything else.

As the current song reaches its final notes, I glance up, and my heart nearly stops. He’s looking at me, a slight smile playing on his lips.

I put my hands on my hips. “You said you wouldn’t watch.” My tone is indignant, forgetting for a moment that he’s my employer.

He walks over to the counter and chuckles softly. “I only looked up at the end to make sure you had everything under control.”

I relax ever so slightly. “And?”

He takes a plate and puts a small taste of stroganoff, rice, and salad on it.

I’m holding my breath as he eats it, my eyes glued to his face for any signs of a grimace or wince.

But he smiles. “Delicious. I knew you could do it.”

My brow crinkles. “You did?”