“Well, I had to learn how to take care of myself,” he says with a smirk, turning back to whatever it is that he’s cooking that smells so incredible. “I don’t live the life of a pampered mafia son or a priest any longer, with food always being made for me.” He winks at me, and I feel myself flush. “I suppose I can always come up to the main house for a meal when I’m home, but I don’t like feeling like a burden.” He shrugs. “It turns out that it’s a good feeling, knowing I can do for myself. Makes me feel less helpless to my circumstances.”
“I can’t cook at all,” I admit, pushing myself up onto one of the chairs and leaning my elbows on the island. “I never learned as a foster child, of course–my foster parents always wanted me ‘out of the kitchen and out from underfoot’ or else had me doing too many other chores. And then, of course, living with Viktor and Caterina–there’s no need. I think Hannah would shoo me out too, if I ever tried to learn.” I flush deeper, a little embarrassed by the admission. “I suppose if I ever do date, I’ll have to learn how.”
“Why?” Max glances back at me, frowning. “Sasha, any man worthy of you will be able to cook a meal for you both.” He picks up a spatula, flipping the contents of the pan onto a waiting plate. “Learn if you want to–I’d be happy to show you, actually–but only if you want to, not because you feel like you need to in order to get a date. A man who demands you do the cooking and cleaning isn’t worth your time.” He walks over to the island, setting a plate down in front of me. “Here you go.”
I stare down at the plate. There’s a fragrant omelet, several strips of medium-cooked bacon, and a pile of chopped fruit next to it. “Those definitely don’t sound like the words of a pampered mafia son,” I tease him as he returns to the stove. “Makes it hard to believe you were born into this kind of family at all.”
“Good,” Max says, cracking more eggs into the pan. “Nothing about my childhood here made me want to be like my father, or my brothers. If anything, I just felt sorry for my mother and what she endured.”
I glance curiously up at him, taking a bite of bacon. He pushes the eggs around his pan and then pours a glass of juice from a pitcher, bringing it over to me. “You work for Viktor, though,” I say carefully, as he sets the glass down. “Is that better?”
“I work for Viktor because I owe him.” Max walks back to the stove, his voice flat. “Not because I want to be a part of any mafia, Bratva, or another mob–as an heir or a lackey.”
I consider that for a moment, chewing my food thoughtfully. Most men who grew up the heirs to a powerful family name, even as a second son, wouldn’t deign to work under another man like Max works for Viktor, running his errands to the other families and negotiating for him at times, smoothing ruffled feathers at others. It says something about Max’s humility that not only does he recognize what he owes Viktor for the protection he’s offered, but that he doesn’t resent having to follow through on it.
Max fills his own plate with food, coming to sit across from me at the island, the pitcher of juice between us for refills.
“What do you want your life to be, then?” I ask softly, wondering if it’s too personal a question–but how could it be, when the man sitting across from me has been literallyinsideof me? “If you don’t want your family name, or to work for another family, and you weren’t actually meant to be a priest–”’
“I liked the priesthood,” Max says quietly, taking a bite of his food, not quite meeting my eyes. “I can admit I wasn’t altogether pleased with the idea at first, when my brother absconded to Milan and then to Paris, well away from my father’s influence and reach. It sounded like another cage–more ritual and rules and being beholden to men older than me who thought that meant they had power over me. I grew up in the Church, of course, and I never felt any calling to it or even any strong belief that would make me want to serve it.”
He pauses, taking another bite. I wish he would look at me as he speaks, but he seems unable to do so, as if he’s afraid to see the look on my face–the disappointment at hearing that he wasn’t glad to leave. But of course, I already knew that about him.
“It was different once I went to seminary,” Max continues. “Almost immediately, really. I always loved learning and studying, so the classes were no hardship. The faith aspect took longer for me to come around to, to feel any real pull beyond going through the motions, but in time, I felt that too. Whether it was a product of my surroundings or something real–” he shrugs. “I can’t say. But what I found in the priesthood, aside from any notions of faith in divinity or theology, was a faith in humanity that I hadn’t known I could believe in.”
He clears his throat, finally looking up to meet my eyes. “I grew up with a father who cheated on my mother, a broken marriage held together by the glue of family alliances, surrounded by criminals who would kill and torture and manipulate for more money and power. I saw nothing in humanity to believe in. After I left, I saw a different side of people. I saw the opportunity to help and heal instead–and I saw good in others that I had never seen before. It showed me the possibilities for forgiveness, for happiness.” Max presses his lips together, his thoughts clearly somewhere far away. “I found peace away from the violence and wealth and power. And then–I was thrust back into it.”
“So if you could go back, you would.” My heart aches at the thought, the knowledge that there’s nothing here, not even me, that would hold Max back from returning to his service as a priest if he had the opportunity. Why, I don’t know. He’s made it amply clear that whatever desire he has for me, he doesn’t intend to give in to it again.
Max looks at me, and I see him hesitate. “Yes,” he says finally, and drops his gaze to his plate.
Don’t let it hurt you,I tell myself fiercely, but I can’t help it. It burns through my chest as I blink back tears, returning to my own food. “This is delicious,” I manage, forcing my words to be even and calm, without the emotion I feel churning inside of me. “So, how didyoulearn to cook?”
Max laughs, a little self-consciously. “I got a meal-delivery service for a while,” he admits. “One of those things where they send you pre-cut ingredients in bags and a very thorough recipe. After a while, I picked up enough to branch out on my own. Now, I just cook for myself when I can. Of course, I still have to indulge myself in Hannah’s cooking now and then. It far exceeds my capabilities.”
“She really is amazing,” I agree, taking a final bite of my cheese-stuffed omelet. “But this is a good substitute until we can get back home.”
“Speaking of home–” Max pushes out his chair, reaching for my plate and his and carrying them to the sink. “Let me wash up, and I’ll take you on that tour I promised you.”
“I can help.” I get up quickly, joining him next to the sink. I reach for a dish, and he promptly snatches it out of my hand, his fingers warmly brushing mine as he does so. He turns towards me a little, the close proximity meaning we brush against one another, and I jump back as if he burned me, feeling my breath catch in my throat.
“Just sit,” Max admonishes. “You’re still recovering, and all I’m doing is loading the dishwasher–”
He steps forward to open it just as I try to go past him, and we bump directly into one another. For a brief moment, all of each of us is touching the other–my breasts brushing against his hard chest, hips to hips, and as if he does it without thinking, his hands drop to my hips, holding me there for the briefest second.
I have a moment’s wild hope that he’s going to pull me closer. My heart is hammering in my chest, my blood spiked and rushing hotly under my skin as I look up into his hazel eyes, knowing my own are wide. I want to touch him, to kiss him, the desire in me like a wildfire. I have a sudden vivid image of him lifting me onto the counter and repeating our desperate kisses in his bathroom that day–the first time he kissed me.
He moves me aside gently, stepping past me to the dishwasher, and the disappointment that lances through me is as icy as the desire had been heated. I press my hand to my mouth, turning away so that he can’t see me, blinking back tears.
I can’t keep letting him affect me this way.There’s no telling how long we’ll be here or what damage could be done to our relationship. But I can’t seem to stop.
I’m in love with Maximilian Agosti–and I know it’s going to be the downfall of us both.
6
SASHA
Iend up going back upstairs to change and collect myself while Max finishes cleaning up the kitchen, changing into jeans and a t-shirt, and boots to walk around the estate. I splash cold water over my face, chasing away the redness left over, and pull my hair back into a loose ponytail, hoping to look as casual and unconcerned as I want to feel.