3. Diana

3

DIANA

I learned at a young age how to read a room, to notice the changes in energy. One minute I’m whisking cream, my hips swaying to the song I’m humming, while around me the other staff are working and chatting. The next minute, the energy changes. It darkens. The usual bustle has died down, leaving an eerie quiet.

Even before I turn, I know it’s one of the D’Amatos. The way the rest of the staff have quickly left the room tells me it’s Lazaro.

I turn to him, my eyes locking with his tormented hazel ones. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. The air around him crackles with tension. I wonder if he’s here to smash more dishes.

But then I see something beyond the anger. A vulnerability. He looks lost.

I force a bright smile. He looks at me like I’m an enigma.

I arch a brow. “Do you need a cookie?”

He surprises me when his lips twitch upward. “Yes.”

I move to plate a cookie and pour a glass of milk. “I saved you some. Do you have a favorite cookie? I could make them for you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. I get the sense he’s watching me. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Not like other men I’ve had pay too much attention to me.

Finally, he says, “I like your cookies.”

I serve him and go back to my duties, giving him space.

“What are you doing?” he asks, biting his cookie.

I hold up the whisk. "Whipping cream. It's therapeutic, you know. All that whisking. Do you cook?”

He shrugs. “I’ve fed myself well enough. I’ve never made whipped cream, though.”

“Well, you’ve missed out, then. Come on. Have a turn.”

He moves closer and looks into the bowl. "I don't know how."

"That's okay. I'll teach you."

He doesn't respond, just takes a step closer. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, warmer. I'm acutely aware of how he towers over me. I can see why people are afraid of him. And yet, I’m not.

"Is everything alright?" I ask, searching his face for clues as to what is going on inside him.

“I…" he starts, then stops, running a hand through his dark hair. "I don't know why I'm here."

I turn to face him fully. "Well, I'm glad you are. Sometimes, the kitchen is the best place to clear your head."

His eyes narrow, studying me. "You're not afraid of me." He said the same thing the other day.

“Should I be?”

A bitter laugh escapes him. "According to everyone else, yes."

I take a chance, reaching out to touch his arm. His muscles tense under my fingers, but he doesn't pull away.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Lazaro's gaze drops to where my hand rests on his arm, then back to my face. The storm in his eyes shifts, turning into something else entirely. My breath catches in my throat as he leans in slightly, and for a wild moment, I think he might kiss me. And I think I might let him even though I shouldn’t. I mean, I work for his family. He’s got a lot of heavy, deep, and real emotional issues going on right now.

As if he recognizes what’s happening, he jerks back. “I, ah…” Realizing he’s holding a cookie, he takes another bite, finishing the cookie.

My cheeks warm, and I abandon the whipped cream as I move to the try of cookies. “Want another one?”

For a moment, the room is filled with an awkward quiet. Finally, he settles onto a stool with his milk. I get two more cookies and set them on his plate and return to my whipped cream.

“What has brought you to the kitchen?” I wince at how dumb that question is.

“Escaping a family meeting," he grunts, reaching for the cookie.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the soft scrape of the whisk inside the bowl. I’m about to over-whip my cream but can’t seem to stop. The air feels thick with unspoken tension. What happened in the meeting?

Desperate to fill the silence, I start humming softly.

“What's that song?"

I blink, surprised by his sudden interest. "Oh, from A Little Jazz Mass .”

“What is that?”

“I… ah… I don’t know.” I laugh. “I heard it one Sunday in a church. I was walking by and it drew me in.” I pull my phone from my back pocket. "Here, let me find it for you."

I scroll through my playlist. When I find the song, I hit Play , and the uplifting melody fills the kitchen.

"It's beautiful," Lazaro murmurs, his expression softening.

Encouraged, I ask, "Do you have a favorite type of music?"

He shrugs, his answer vague. "I'm not sure anymore."

My heart aches at the uncertainty in his voice. I try a different approach. "What about hobbies? Is there anything you enjoy doing?"

Lazaro's brow furrows as he considers the question. "I… I'm not sure. I like cars. I like working on them.” He shakes his head like he doesn’t understand why.

“Did you learn that from your dad?”

“I doubt it. I guess I learned it before because I’m good at it. I mean… that knowledge wouldn’t have come out of the blue, would it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve heard stories about people having a head injury and all of a sudden speaking in a different accent or language.”

“Really?” He seems genuinely surprised by that.

“It’s something I’ve heard.”

“Huh.”

“Or maybe it’s something you knew. Something about you that you still have. It could mean the rest of your memory will return too,” I say to give him hope.

He scowls. “I don’t want my memory back.”

Oh. Well. Thinking quickly to avoid his falling into despair again, I ask, “So, what do you know about cars?”

He dunks a cookie in his milk, taking a bite before answering. “Everything. Or… I’ve never met a car I couldn’t figure out.” As he speaks about engines and models, his entire demeanor shifts. His shoulders relax and he becomes more animated. I find myself captivated, not by the subject matter but by this glimpse of the man beneath the brooding exterior.

I keep the car-themed questions coming, delighting in the way Lazaro's eyes light up as he talks about engines and transmissions

"So, what was your first car?" I lean against the table next to him, abandoning my whipped cream.

Lazaro's brow furrows for a moment, but then he shakes his head. "I can't remember. I think it’s an old car. A classic. Maybe that Aston Martin Lana was driving when she found me.”

“ James Bond , eh? It fits.”

He glances at me, his smile faltering. “Why? Because he’s a killer?”

I maintain my smile. “No, because he’s suave.”

He blinks. “You think I’m suave.”

Ah… how do I answer this? The guy is my boss. “I think you can be whatever you want. And if you’re looking for a car project, I’ll donate mine. I think it’s running on duct tape and fumes.”

A chuckle escapes Lazaro's lips, surprising us both. It's a rich, warm sound that sends a lovely shimmer down my spine.

“I was heading north to Minnesota, you know, land of ten thousand lakes. I made it from Nashville to Chicago when there's this awful grinding noise in my little beater. Next thing I know, smoke's pouring out from under the hood. I pull over, pop the hood, and it's like opening the gates of hell."

"What did you do?" he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, I did what any self-respecting car owner would do. I poured my Big Gulp all over the engine."

Lazaro bursts out laughing, a full-bodied sound that fills the kitchen. It’s so glorious in its joy. I join in, caught up in the moment. Our laughter mingles in the air and for a brief, magical moment, it feels like we're the only two people in the world.

As our laughter dies down, Lazaro looks at me with a newfound warmth in his eyes. "You know, if you want, I could show you how to maintain your car. Save you from any more Big Gulp incidents."

"Really? You'd do that?"

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, why not? It's a useful skill to have."

Warmth spreads through my chest at the thought of spending more time with him. It’s dumb feeling, even dangerous. Lazaro may come off as salt-of-the earth like me, but he’s actually a part of Mafia royalty. The Lost Prince, as the staff called him.

Even so, I can’t do the wise thing and keep my distance. "I'd love that.”

“What’s going on?” Lana’s voice cools the warmth of the moment. Her eyes widen, moving between Lazaro and me. A flicker of hurt or maybe suspicion shows in her expression, which makes no sense. Shouldn’t she be happy to hear Lazaro laughing?

I watch as Lazaro's shoulders tense, his jaw clenching. The light and openness of a moment ago vanishes, replaced by irritation. The air in the kitchen grows thick with tension, and I suddenly feel like an intruder in a private family moment.

Lana's gaze settles on me, her expression unreadable. I fumble with my apron, desperate for something to do with my hands. "I should go check on the…" I trail off, not sure what I should leave to do.

"No, stay," Lazaro says, his voice gruff. He turns to Lana, crossing his arms. "What is it?"

Lana straightens. Her chin lifts. "Elio and Matteo need help with a situation. I thought you might want to assist."

Lazaro's eyes narrow. "What kind of situation? Who do I need to kill?"

I flinch. Is he serious? He’s going to kill someone? A part of me understands that killing is likely a part of the family business, but I can’t see it in the people I work for. They’re a loving, albeit sometimes snipping, family. I can’t reconcile the Mafia element with the family I’m coming to know.

Lana scowls at him. “No one. It’s just a business meeting. And maybe working will help jog your memory.”

"For fuck's sake, Lana." Lazaro slams his hand on the table, and I jump at the sudden outburst. "I don't need more time to 'jog my memory'. What I need is to be useful."

Lana doesn’t seem moved by his reaction. “Then go with them and be useful.”

“Good. I'm tired of sitting around, waiting for memories that might never come back."

The siblings stare at each other, the air crackling. If spontaneous combustion is a real thing, it might happen to them.

Lazaro storms to the door, but then stops and looks back at me. “Thank you for the cookies.”

“Of course, Mr. D’Amato.” I smile and nod like a dutiful servant.

He exits, and I feel a sudden emptiness. And sadness. It’s clear a tug-of-war is going on inside him. The contrast between Lazaro's openness with me and his bristling reaction to Lana is stark. I wonder if I should mention this to her. I immediately dismiss the idea. Getting involved in family drama is probably the worst idea I've ever had. Right along with having warm thoughts about spending time with Lazaro, finding new ways to make him laugh or smile. He's not just my employer's brother. He's a man with a complicated past and an uncertain future. And yet…

I can't deny the pull I feel toward him. It's not just his rugged good looks or the air of danger that surrounds him. There's something vulnerable about Lazaro, something that calls to the part of me that's always felt like an outsider. I understand how he’s feeling, wanting to belong but not able to fit in.

But it’s not my job to help him with that. Lana might be going at it the wrong way, but I can see how desperately she wants to help her brother, to bring back the man she remembers. And who am I to get in the way of that?

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. This job is supposed to be simple. Cook for the family, a short-term gig until I move on to the next place. I can’t get caught up in family drama.

Perhaps it’s time to pack up and head out to follow the wind to my next adventure. But a larger part of me wants to stay. Not because my car won’t get me far. Not because I need the money. No. I want to stay for Lazaro. To help him find his footing. To help him find his place. And heaven help me for imagining this, but maybe I’ll find my place too.