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“Your place is nice,” I said, feeling a need to fill the silence. “Our place.” “Right … our place,” I murmured. “That’s going to take some time to get used to.” “Have a seat at the bar. You like risotto?” My eyebrows hit my hairline. I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised he was offering to cook or that he was making Italian. He smirked over his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone, but Ma loves Italian. She loves to cook in general, and since I was an only child, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her.” He moved with natural ease in the modern space, pulling out high-end cooking pans and ingredients from scratch. I considered asking about his connection to the Genoveses but decided against it. We were tiptoeing into some semblance of normalcy, and I didn’t want to rock the boat. “Well
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