Chapter 3 - The General's Defection7:34 PM.
Twenty-six minutes left.
The tension in the kitchen was thicker than the carbonara sauce Serena was currently whipping together with starchy pasta water and egg yolks. The glossy, emulsified gold coating the spaghetti sent up a cloud of steam that made everyone's mouth water.
Marco’s stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl that echoed off the marble countertops.
Nico immediately pointed a finger at him. “Traitor.”
“Shut up!” Marco hissed, his cheeks flushing pink under his pale skin. “I haven't eaten since lunch because the last one tried to feed us gluten-free cardboard nuggets!”
“They were organic tofu bites,” Alessandro corrected solemnly.
“They tasted like sadness and failure!” Marco snapped back.
Serena divided the pasta evenly into four warm bowls, grating a fresh cloud of pecorino over the top and cracking a heavy storm of black pepper onto each. She didn't say a word. She simply set the bowls down at the massive mahogany dining table that sat just off the kitchen, pulling out four chairs.
“Sit,” she said.
The four boys didn't move. They stood in a tight knot by the island, staring at the steaming bowls of authentic, perfectly crafted spaghetti carbonara as if it were a trap laid by the FBI.
“It’s poisoned,” Nico whispered dramatically.
“If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't waste good pecorino romano on it,” Serena said, leaning against the back of a chair. “I’d use store-brand ketchup.”
Victor walked over, pulling out the head of the table and sitting down with a quiet, deliberate grace. He picked up his fork, twirled a modest amount of spaghetti, and took a bite.
The kitchen went dead silent. Even the grandfather clock in the hallway seemed to hold its breath.
Victor chewed slowly, his dark eyes fixed on Serena. For three long seconds, no one moved. Then, Victor swallowed, set his fork down, and looked at his sons.
“Eat,” the mafia boss said quietly. “Before I let her feed it to the guard dogs.”
That was all it took.
Marco broke formation first. He darted to the table, scrambled into his chair, and shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth. His eyes went wide. The angry, defiant scarecrow facade melted instantly, replaced by the pure, unadulterated ecstasy of a six-year-old eating actual, delicious food.
“It’s good,” Marco mumbled around a mouthful of noodles, trying desperately to maintain a shred of his dignity. “It’s... acceptable.”
Within three seconds, the rest of the pack swarmed the table like locusts. Bowls scraped against wood. Forks clattered. The military-grade coordination was instantly abandoned in favor of a brutal, unhinged carb-loading session.
Serena let out a long, shuddering breath she felt like she’d been holding since she walked through the front doors.
May you like
Victor looked across the table, raising his glass of water toward her in a silent toast.
“Well, Miss Valente,” the billionaire murmured softly, a dangerous, captivated gleam in his eyes. “You made it past dinner. But the night is still young.”
