I found my way downstairs, moving like someone who had just fought a war. My legs were sore, and my thighs hurt. My lower belly? It was screaming pains. I held it with one hand as I entered the kitchen. I opened the fridge and pulled out the nylon bag Vito brought last night… the same food I refused to eat when he gave it to me. I was angry, stubborn, and scared last night. But now, my stomach didn't care about any of that.
I placed the nylon bag on the counter and opened it. It was risotto alla Milanese, golden and creamy. The rich smell of saffron hit me first, warm and buttery, like comfort wrapped in luxury.
It looked expensive. The kind of food served in big restaurants in Italy. My mouth watered.
I placed it in the microwave, waited, then served it nicely on a plate. I sat
