Keeping My Bride by Angela Snyder
Chapter 17
Verona
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up early again…but not to run the dishwasher this time. After the whole bubbles incident, as I’m calling it, I’m desperate to do better. If I’m going to be stuck in this marriage, I’m going to at least try to get along with my husband. And I want him to at least like me. Is that so hard to ask for?
And so, when I see Benito, Luca’s second in command, walking down the hall the next day, I corner him. Benito towers over me, and so I have to look up so far it almost hurts my neck. “Hi, could I, uh, talk to you for a second?” I ask, feeling intimidated by his size alone…not to mention the tattoos covering him almost head to toe or the way his presence alone is menacing.
“Sure,” he says in a gruff voice. He motions for us to enter a separate room, and he closes the door behind us. “What’s wrong?” he asks, already assuming the worst.
“What does Luca like to eat?” I blurt out. My question has Benito raising a dark eyebrow in confusion. “I mean, what’s his favorite food? I would like to cook for him,” I explain quickly.
“Ah,” he says, nodding in understanding. “Well, don’t tell him I told you this, but his favorite is his mother’s recipe for spaghetti. I could call Greta, one of the old cooks that used to work for his father, and get the recipe. I’m sure she would remember how to make it. She could help you over the phone, talk you through it.”
“Really? That would be wonderful,” I tell him, smiling widely and so happy by his response that I could hug him. But I won’t.
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Benny!” I exclaim, blurting out the nickname without thinking.
He pauses for a moment and then a rare smile spreads across his face. “Benny? I like that,” he says with a dark chuckle.
I can’t help but smile as we leave the room and he leads the way into the kitchen, ordering the cooks to help me with cooking dinner tonight.
“We’re going out later,” Benito warns. Then, he quickly adds, “But I promise I’ll try to get Luca back in time for dinner.”
“That would be great. Thanks,” I tell him.
Benito calls Greta on the house phone, and I listen as the older woman rambles on in Italian to the new cooks. They write down every word and assure us that they have all the ingredients already to make it.
I’m so excited to cook for Luca that I’m practically bursting. I know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, or at least that’s what my mama always said. And lord knows I need some kind of miracle to weasel my way into my husband’s cold, dark heart.
