Chapter 21
“My family lives primarily in Altoria,” he added after a moment, his tone softening slightly. “There’s a family gathering next month. I’ll take you to meet them then.”
F
By late afternoon, we arrived at the Casanova Residence in Portano. As we entered our apartment, I realized we had no food for dinner. we can trus
I should go grocery shopping,” I said, checking the empty refrigerator. “There’s a supermarket just down the street.”
Marco checked his watch, then nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to. I’m sure you have work to catch up on.
“As your husband, my responsibilities extend beyond earning money,” he replied, removing his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The casual gesture somehow made him look even more attractive.
We walked the short distance to the local supermarket, drawing glances from nearly everyone we passed. I couldn’t blame them–Marco commanded attention without even trying. His tall frame, perfect posture, and confident stride made him stand out even in casual attire.
A group of women at a sidewalk café openly stared as we passed, whispering behind their hands. I caught fragments of their Italian conversation: *…così potente…” so powerful and “…quegli occhi…” those eyes.
“You attract quite an audience,” I commented, feeling an unexpected twinge of possessiveness.
Marco’s hand found the small of my back, his touch warm through my light sweater. “I only care about you opinion.”
My cheeks flushed at his words. “Well, in my opinion, you’re the most elegant and powerful man I’ve ever met.
A low chuckle rumbied in his chest as he leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. “Powerful or not, you’ll find out firsthand tonight.”
Heat flooded my face and neck, spreading lower as his words conjured vivid images in my mind. I ducked my head, suddenly unable to meet his intense gaze.
In the supermarket’s seafood section, I selected a fresh Mediterranean sea bass, planning to prepare it Italian–style with herbs and lemon.
The fishmonger, an older Italian man with weathered hands and a broad smile, greeted me warmly in Italian. “Ah, signorina! Questa spigola è arrivata questa mattina. Perfetta per una bella cena romantica, eh?” This sea bass arrived this morning. Perfect for a romantic dinner, eh?
I responded in fluent Italian, discussing the best preparation methods. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Marco watching our exchange with interest.
“You seem popular with the locals,” he observed when the fishmonger wrapped our purchase with a flourish and a wink for me.
I hooked my arm through Marco’s, feeling suddenly bold. “Well, I am a charming Italian girl, after all.
Instead of just accepting may playful gesture, Marco interlaced our fingers, his large hand enveloping mine completely.
After selecting vegetables, pasta, and a bottle of white wine, we headed to checkout. I noticed Marco had silenced his work phone. This small gesture–prioritizing our mundane grocery shopping over his evidently important business–touched me more than any expensive gift could have.
Back in our apartment kitchen, I lied an apron around my waist and began organizing ingredients.
“I can help,” Marco offered, removing his watch and rolling his sleeves higher.
I smiled, pointing at him with the wooden spoon. “No way, every time you help, you end up causing trouble,
1:05 AM
Chapter 21
‘I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised.
I set about preparing the sea bass while starting water for pasta and chopping vegetables for the sauce. As I worked, I added generous amounts of red onion to the sauce and the fish marinade–a specialty of Portano regional cooking that gave dishes a distinctive sweetness.”
Marco moved around me with surprising grace for such a large man, handing me utensils before I asked.
At the dining table, I carefully served Marco first, placing a generous portion of sea bass on his plate, surrounded by pasta and sauce laden with red onions.
I noticed his slight hesitation as he looked at the onion–covered dish, a barely perceptible furrow appearing between his brows. Yet instead of pushing the plate away, he picked up his fork.
“You don’t like red onions, do you?” I asked, suddenly concerned.
Marco paused, fork midway to his mouth. “What makes you say that?”
“Your expression changed when you saw them,” I said, remembering how observant he’d been about my preferences. “Why didn’t you say something?”
He set his fork down carefully. “It’s fine. The dish looks excellent.”
“Marco, I pressed, “if you don’t like something, you should tell me.”
A brief internal struggle played across his features before he admitted, “I have a mild allergy to onions. Nothing serious.”
I immediately reached for his plate. “Let me make you something else.”
To my surprise, Marco placed his hand over mine, stopping me. “No need.
“But-
“Alia.” His voice was gentle but firm. “You went to the trouble of cooking. I’ll eat it.”
As I watched him take a deliberate bite, smiling at me across the table despite his discomfort.
The realization that this powerful, commanding man would willingly eat something he was allergic to rather than disappoint me again sent a warm flutter through my chest.
Since we got married, this was the first time I felt that marriage had meaning,
