I let him drown me

RYAN

I stared at the tray on my lap like it was some sort of illusion. Like if I blinked, it would vanish and I’d wake up to an empty room and the usual tightness in my chest.

But no. It was real.

French toast. Scrambled eggs. Tomato stew. Apple slices neatly arranged on the side like a garnish from some hotel menu. And juice. Juice in a damn glass, not a bottle.

I blinked again, slowly.

“You cooked,” I said, still trying to process the miracle that had just walked into my life.

Ricardo just raised a brow. “I said I did.”

“No,” I said, sitting up a little straighter, “you don’t understand. You. Cooked.”

He smirked. “Wow. You make it sound like I just performed heart surgery instead of cracking a few eggs.”

“That is heart surgery… for you!” I said, laughing now, because honestly, the idea of Ricardo Lorenzo Moretti, Mafia Boss and certified terrifying man, standing in a kitchen with an apron and a spatula was sending me.

“You’re not exactly the domestic type,” I teased, lifting a fork.