Too Many Questions and Not Enough Answers

Marina

By the time I finished wiping down the counters, the kitchen smelled faintly like lemon and garlic — a scent that felt safe. Normal.

Unlike everything else in this house.

I plopped down on the little stool by the pantry door, pressing the back of my hand to my forehead like some kind of tragic heroine in a bad play.

Because honestly?

That’s exactly what this week was starting to feel like.

“Marina, what have you gotten yourself into?” I muttered under my breath, eyes flicking toward the big, sleek fridge like it might answer me.

Two men.

Both dangerous.

Both quiet in different ways.

And neither of them acting like normal employers.

I mean — who pays ten grand in one go just for cooking pasta and cutting vegetables?

I shook my head, chewing my bottom lip.

And then there was the other thing.

Domenico.

Always in those dark, expensive shades, even inside the house where the light was soft and golden.

Who does that?

Movie stars? Maybe.

Men with secrets? Definitely.

And the way he moved…

Slow. Careful. Like every step was measured out before he took it.

Like he was counting tiles under his shoes or something.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and staring at the polished kitchen floor.

“Are they brothers? Or just… best friends? Business partners? Mafia twins?” I whispered, letting out a tiny, nervous laugh. “Oh God, Marina. Don’t even joke about that.”

But the thought refused to go away.

They looked alike — same dark hair, same tall build — but their energy couldn’t be more different.

Alessandro was cold, sharp, always barking into his phone in some language I couldn’t place.

Like ice.

Like steel.

And Domenico…

Well, he laughed.

Not much, but enough to make me notice.

Enough to make me wonder if there was something softer under those shades and that cool smile.

I huffed out a breath and let my head fall back against the pantry door with a soft thunk.

“Stop overthinking,” I told myself. “You’re here to cook, not to play detective.”

But deep down, that little voice one that always got me in trouble — whispered

Yeah, but don’t you want to know?

Why does Domenico wear shades in the house?

Why does Alessandro act like everyone is a threat?

Why does this mansion feel like a golden cage?

And why, oh why, does my bank account now have five figures sitting in it after just one day?

I sighed again, pushing up to my feet.

Lunch was done.

Counters were clean.

But my brain?

A total mess.

And I had a sinking feeling that the more time I spent in this house, the more questions I was going to have.

I was still standing there like an idiot, wiping the same clean counter for the third time, when I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me.

Not loud.

Not heavy.

But measured.

Precise.

My heart gave a stupid little jump, and I spun around so fast I almost knocked over the fancy salt grinder.

Domenico.

Leaning lightly against the doorframe, hands slipped casually into the pockets of his tailored slacks.

Dark shirt. Dark shades. That same unreadable half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“You clean like you’re scrubbing away your thoughts,” he said, voice smooth, with that soft rasp I was starting to recognize. “Should I be worried?”

Heat flooded my face, and I dropped the cloth like it had personally betrayed me.

“N-no,” I stammered, pushing my hair behind my ear. “Just… thinking. I guess.”

“Dangerous habit around here,” Domenico murmured, stepping further into the kitchen.

His movements were slow, almost graceful — like he was dancing to a rhythm only he could hear.

Always so careful.

So… calculated.

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Can I—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Can I ask you something?”

His head tilted slightly, that faint smile deepening just a little.

“You just did.”

I blinked. “Okay, smart guy. Then can I ask you… two things?”

That earned me a soft laugh.

Low. Warm.

It slipped under my skin and made my heart do that dumb flutter again.

“Go ahead, little chef,” he said, voice like velvet. “Ask away.”

I bit my lip, then blurted out the first thing that had been gnawing at me since I stepped foot in this golden prison of a house.

“Are you and Alessandro… brothers?”

For a heartbeat, the room felt too still.

Even the humming of the fridge seemed to fade out.

Then Domenico pushed off the doorframe with a soft sigh, stepping closer to the island counter between us.

His fingers tapped lightly against the marble surface, once, twice — like a tick I hadn’t noticed before.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Blood brothers. Though some days, I wonder if he’d rather strangle me than admit it.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, relief washing over me like a wave.

“Okay. Good. I mean—” I stumbled. “Not good that he wants to strangle you. Just… good to know. I wasn’t sure if you were like… best friends or partners or… I don’t know.”

Domenico’s lips twitched upward again. “Brothers. For better or worse.”

I nodded, feeling braver now that I hadn’t been kicked out or glared at yet.

And because my mouth clearly had a death wish, the second question tumbled out before I could stop it.

“And… why do you always wear shades? Even inside?”

Another beat of silence.

Longer this time.

Heavy enough to make my stomach twist a little.

Domenico’s fingers stilled against the counter.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was softer. Almost… thoughtful.

“Because some things are easier when people can’t see your eyes,” he murmured. “And some things… I’d rather not see at all.”

His head tilted toward me, and even behind those dark lenses, I felt the weight of his attention settle on me like a physical thing.

“Does that answer your question, Marina?”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

“No,” I whispered. “Not really.”

Another soft laugh, but this one didn’t reach his mouth.

“Good,” Domenico said. “A little mystery is healthy. Keeps you from asking a third question.”

I blinked. “Was that a threat or advice?”

“Both,” he said smoothly, turning away with that same careful grace. “Take it however you like, little chef.”

And just like that, he was gone — leaving behind only the faintest trace of expensive cologne and a whole new swarm of thoughts buzzing in my head.

I sank back onto the stool, pressing my hands over my face.

“Marina, you really need to stop talking.”

But deep down, I knew I wouldn’t.

Not when every answer only made me want more.