RICARDO’S POV
The man I was a year ago would probably hate me now—or at least laugh at how far I’d fallen.
Standing in the warm kitchen of the villa, with the scent of fresh herbs and garlic wafting through the air, I stirred the pot of sauce absentmindedly. Linda was sitting at the island, flipping through some magazines and occasionally humming to herself. She looked up every now and then to check on me, smile always at the ready.
“I still can’t believe you cook,” Linda said, her voice lilting with playful disbelief as she rested her chin on her palm. She sat at the island like it was her throne, watching me work.
“You’ve known for months,” I replied without looking up, though I couldn’t stop the slight twitch of a smile tugging at my lips.
“Knowing and believing are two different things,” she said dramatically as if the mere thought of me wielding a spatula were too much to process. “I mean, come on. You, Ricardo Moretti, slayer of gangsters, protector of secrets, simmering marinar
