Torture to Her Soul(98)

She's still just standing there, gaping at me. It takes her a moment to respond. "Uh, um… here."

She grabs some tomatoes and sets them in front of me.

I dice them quickly, getting rid of the excess juice and seeds, and toss the tomatoes into the bowl. Before I can say a word, Karissa drops some cucumbers in front of me. I stare at them before cutting my eyes at her, seeing the smile playing on her lips as she turns her focus on the pot on the stove. She keeps shoving vegetables my way, even after the salad is done. Onions and green peppers, fresh thyme and oregano, things she needs for whatever she's cooking.

When all that is done, she sets a block of cheese on the counter. I eye it peculiarly before cutting it into perfect cubes. "What's the cheese for?"

"Dunno," she says, reaching past me and grabbing a cheese cube, popping it in her mouth. "I just like watching you do that."

Laughing, I toss the knife in the sink, stopping before she invents something else for me to cut up. "My father showed me how to use a knife when I was a kid. I spent my summers in the back of the deli with him."

"That's sweet," she says.

"It's only because I was free labor. He was too cheap to ever hire anybody."

"Still, I'm sure it was nice getting to spend time with him."

"Yeah, it was," I concede, wiping down a section of counter, cleaning up my mess. "It was the only time he ever recognized me for something good. Usually it was 'Ignazio, you disappoint me' or 'Ignazio, be a man', but those days he'd look at me and say, 'Ignazio, my son, you did good today'. It was nice to hear that."

"So he taught you how to cook?"

"He did."

"So why don't you?" she asks. "If you're worried about everyone poisoning your food, why don't you just cook for yourself?"

"Good question," I say. "Maybe I've got a death wish."

Before she can respond, I give her a smile and walk away. "I'll be in the den if you need anything, Karissa."

She doesn't stop me.

I'm thankful for it.

A few minutes pass—five, maybe ten—before I hear her cursing. Seconds later, I faintly smell smoke. Sighing, I lean back in my chair, hands clasped on the back of my head, my eyes closed.

I don't know what's happening, but I'm sure she can handle it. If not, she knows where I am.

Eventually, her cursing tapers off, and all goes quiet. I get lost in the peace for a moment until I hear her voice. "Naz?"

Opening my eyes, I look at her in the doorway. The tentative expression is back. "Yes?"

"If you're hungry, the food is finished."

She fidgets like a nervous child awaiting punishment. I nod in acknowledgement. "I'll be there in a minute."

It's a small concession on my behalf, but to her it's everything. Her face lights up, eyes sparkling. I get a glimpse of her radiant smile as she leaves the room, easing my worries.

I'm offering her my trust again.

When I walk into the dining room, she's already seated at the table, in the same chair she always sits in with or without me. I take the seat across from her, eyeing our plates warily. Steak with loaded mashed potatoes and a bowl of salad.

"We can switch plates, if you want," she says quickly. "Or not, either way. We could even go halfsies, you know... like, share."

"It's fine," I say, pushing back my natural paranoia. "So you made steak."

"It's your favorite," she says. "I remember you telling me that."

"It is."

I pick up my fork and knife and immediately cut into it. The outside is seared nicely while the inside is dark pink, borderline rare.

"I wasn't sure how you like it, and well, honestly, I don't think I could cook it a specific way. I had all these notes but when it came down to it, I kind of just threw it on and hoped for the best."

I cut off a small piece and pop it in my mouth.

I don't think she could ever look happier than she does at the moment. She takes a bite of her own, chewing as she tries to contain her smile. There's nothing sinister about the pull of her lips.

We eat and chat, like a normal couple doing normal things. I've eaten meals personally prepared by world-renowned chefs, but none ever meant quite as much as what's on my plate. She poured her soul out and offered it up, and it isn't perfect, but it was made for me.

I don't waste any of it.

I crack open a bottle of wine afterward and we drink heartily, the alcohol loosening her lips as she relaxes, talking about any and everything. By the time the bottle is empty, she's pretty well lit. I can see it in her eyes as they glisten under the lights of the dining room.

She gets up to take care of our plates but I reach out and grab her wrist, stopping her before she can take them away. Prying the dirty plates from her fingers, I shove them down the table, ignoring her feeble protests as I pull her onto my lap. She straddles me, her skirt riding up, her arms wrapping around my neck. My hands graze her knees before slowly running up her thighs, settling just beneath the material of her skirt as I lean forward, softly kissing her.