Waffles and Debts

Chapter 7: Waffles and Debts

Gwen

Okay Gwen, breathe. Just breathe.

That’s what I kept telling myself, curled up in that stupidly luxurious prison after he left. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was louder than any of the things I’d broken.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I could still see it—the way the serrated edge of the butter knife, which I’d sharpened against the damn floor for what felt like hours, had sliced right into his palm. I’d aimed for his throat. I’d meant to kill him, or at least hurt him enough to get the keys and run. But he moved like a snake, his hand coming up so fast I didn’t even see it, just felt the jarring impact as the blade bit into his flesh.

But it was his face that haunted me. It wasn’t the rage I expected. There was no cold fury, no violence. It was just… pain. A deep, wounded look in those hazel eyes that made my stomach twist into a knot.

He’d looked at me like I was the one who’d betrayed him. Like I’d broken something between us that actually existed. He just stood there, blood welling up and dripping onto the Persian rug, and stared at me with that unreadable, painful expression. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out, locking the door behind him.

And that was it. No punishment. No retaliation. Nothing.

I spent the night pressed against the door, expecting him to come back. Every creak of the house made me jump. I was sure this was it, the calm before the storm. He was a killer. I’d seen the evidence in that alley. I’d attacked him. In his world, that probably warranted a bullet. But the night passed in a terrifying silence.

When the sun came up the next morning and I found out that I was still alive and unharmed, I became utterly confused.

The knock around noon was so polite that it felt insulting. It was just a soft, timid tap. I scrambled back from the door as it opened. It wasn’t him. It was an older woman, dressed in a simple, crisp uniform, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.

“Miss Lorne?” she said, her voice gentle. “Mr. Denaro has requested your presence in the kitchen.”

Mr. Denaro. So that was his name. It suited him. Tough and foreign.

I didn’t move. “And if I don’t want to be ‘present’?”

She offered a small, sympathetic smile. “It would be better if you came, miss. He’s made breakfast.”

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh. He’d made breakfast? After I’d tried to turn him into a shish kebab? Was this some kind of last meal ritual? My stomach growled, betraying me. The pasta from last night was a distant memory. Cautiously, I followed her out of the room.

And oh, my God. The house. I’d only seen the bedroom and the hallway leading to it. But this… this was a palace. Vaulted ceilings, modern art on the walls that probably cost more than my entire life’s earnings, sunlight pouring through massive windows that looked out over what seemed like all of Los Angeles.

The floors were made of dark, polished wood, and our footsteps echoed in the vast silence. I tried to keep my face neutral, but I felt like a gutter rat that had missed its way and found itself in a museum.

Then we turned a corner, and I saw it. The kitchen. My knees went a little weak. It wasn’t a kitchen; it was a chef’s wet dream. Oh my lord!

It was a large space of stainless steel, marble, and dark wood. A professional-grade cooking top with eight burners, a double oven, a walk-in pantry with a glass door. It was cleaner and better equipped than the restaurant where I worked. My fingers itched to touch the knives I could see magnetized to a wall rack.

And then I saw him.

Armando Denaro. Shirtless.

He was standing at the massive island, his back to me, muscles rippling under a tapestry of dark ink that covered his shoulders and snaked down his spine. The tattoos were even more intricate than I’d remembered from our night together—a mix of script, religious icons, and patterns that told a story I couldn’t decipher. The bandage on his right palm was stark white against his olive skin. A little spark of vicious satisfaction shot through me. Good. I hope it hurts.

He was flipping something on a griddle. The air was filled with the sweet, comforting scent of vanilla and baking batter. Waffles.

The maid cleared her throat softly. “Mr. Denaro, Miss Lorne is here.”

He didn’t turn around. “Thank you, Sofia. You can go.”

Sofia gave me another one of those looks—part pity, part warning—and disappeared. I was left alone with the shirtless, waffle-making mafia boss.

“Sit,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command, but it lacked the cold edge from the alley.

I remained standing, my arms crossed over my chest. “I’d rather not.”

Finally, he turned around. His gaze was unreadable, but the anger from last night was gone. He looked tired. He gestured to the stool on the other side of the island with a spatula. “Gwen. Sit down. You need to eat.”

Hearing my name on his lips did something to me, something I hated. It sounded intimate, familiar, like he had a right to say it. I reluctantly slid onto the stool, putting the solid marble between us. He placed a plate in front of me. It was a perfect golden waffle, dusted with powdered sugar, accompanied by a bowl of fresh berries and a dollop of what looked like homemade whipped cream. It was… thoughtful. It was insane.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound strong. “The last meal before you dispose of me? You know, for a murderer, I'm surprised you can actually whip up something in the kitchen.”

He flinched, just barely, a tightening around his eyes. He leaned against the counter opposite me, crossing his arms. The movement made the muscles in his chest and abdomen flex. I forced my eyes to stay on his face.

“I told you,” he said, his voice even. “You’re in danger. The food is so you don’t starve. Eating is not optional.”

“The only danger I’m in is you!” I shot back, pushing the plate away. “I saw you! There was a dead man on the ground, and you were covered in his blood! Don’t tell me I’m in danger from some mysterious ‘them.’ You’re the monster here.”

He was silent for a long moment, just watching me. His hazel eyes seemed to see right through my bravado. “If I were the monster you think I am, you’d be dead already. You think a little butter knife would stop me?” He held up his bandaged hand. “This was a paper cut. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have last night.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I challenged, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Why am I still here?”

“Because I owe you a debt.”

There it was again. That phrase that made no sense. “What debt? What could you possibly owe me? We just had a one night stand! That’s it! You left a note and disappeared! That doesn’t incur a debt, that’s just being a jerk!”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The debt is older than that night, Gwen.”

The way he said it, with a weight that felt ancient, sent a chill down my spine. Older than that night? What did that mean? Before I could ask, he reached behind him and picked up a simple manila folder. He slid it across the marble towards me.

“What’s this?” I asked, eyeing it like it was a live snake.

“Open it.”

Hesitantly, I flipped the folder open. The words at the top of the first page were so absurd, so completely out of left field, that a sharp, hysterical sound echoed in the huge kitchen. I laughed like a maniac.

“No. No way.” I looked up at him, my eyes wide. “It’s confirmed! You are completely insane.”

He just watched me, his expression grimly serious.

I read the title aloud, my voice dripping with disbelief. “Contract of Matrimonial Union Between Armando Denaro and Gwendolyn Lorne. Are you for real? You kidnap me, I try to stab you, and your solution is… marriage?”