The weight of my words hung in the air, mingling with the steam rising from our untouched coffee cups. I could feel Giovanni's body tense behind me, his protective instinct warring with his respect for my decision.
Chef's eyes softened, a mix of concern and understanding flickering across his weathered features. He reached out, his flour-dusted hand gently cupping my cheek. The gesture reminded me of countless moments in this very kitchen, of the stability he'd provided when my world was crumbling.
Chef nodded slowly, his hand dropping back to his side. "You remind me of Giovanni at your age sometimes," he said, his voice a mix of pride and worry.
I raised an eyebrow, uncertain how to process that comparison. The man whose arms encircled me now was a far cry from the ruthless crime boss
