LUCA’S POV
The kitchen smells like garlic and basil.
I’m next to the stove stirring my spaghetti. I don’t care if I have 3 Michelin-star chefs on payroll. If I’m stressed, I cook.
I’ve got sauce simmering, pasta water boiling, and my dearest brothers sprawled around the marble island.
Damian is on his phone closing a deal and Elias is pretending to read the paper.
Noah isn’t here yet, I guess he must be working late.
“Eli?” I say, gesturing with the spoon. “What is this, 1998? Just get the app like a normal person.”
He doesn’t look up. “I like the ink on my fingers.”
“Weird flex,” I mutter, tossing pepper at him. “Where’s Aria?”
The room goes quiet for half a second.
“She’s been in her office all day,” I say. “Didn’t come down for lunch.”
Which is very weird of
