A Pet For The Two Mafia Dons
“Rafe… this is actually good.”
“Actually?” he gasped in mock offense. “Woman, I slaved over that stove like Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.”
The Don shook his head, but Selena caught the ghost of a smile at his mouth.
They ate together at the kitchen island, laughter spilling between bites. It was absurd—three people who had burned cities now sharing syrup and butter—but Selena couldn’t remember a moment that felt more human.
After breakfast, Rafe dragged her to the garden, insisting she needed to see his “new hobby.” He had planted three small flowers—crooked, half-wilted—and stood proudly over them.
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