She glared at him, cheeks warm.
"You want the money or not?" Luca held up a one-hundred-dollar bill between two fingers, the gesture careless, insulting in its ease. Money meant nothing here. It was paper. Leverage. A way to make problems disappear. He expected her to snatch it and bolt.
"It's five ninety-nine," she said flatly.
"I'm giving you a hundred dollars so you can get the fuck out of here already."
"I've heard of this place," Vee shot back. "Where the devil lives. Grants you favours and asks for souls in return." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "I don't want any favours. I just want my five ninety-nine."
"You work with Scalese, uhn?" Luca asked.
"Yes."
He hummed softly. He took the bill and slid it into the neckline of her polo shirt, deliberately letting his finger trail down her skin as he did.
Veronica stiffened.
"Like I said," Luca murmured, watching her closely, "I'm Marco. Not the devil." His eyes flicked briefly to where his finger had been. "You can have the money. Can I have the pizza?"
She huffed and dumped the pizza box into his hands with more force than necessary. "There," she said. Then she reached into her shirt, pulled the bill out, and held it up between them. "I'll put it on your tab. You don't have to pay when next you order."
"It's a tip," Luca said.
"And I said I don't want it," Vee insisted, clutching the bill between her fingers.
Luca shrugged dismissively. "Suit yourself," he said. "Addio"
The words followed her as she turned and walked out of the office, spine stiff, dignity held together with sheer stubbornness. She didn't look back. Didn't let herself think about the way his gaze burned into her retreating form. The door shut behind her, sealing that world away.
Moments later, Nonnina arrived with his lunch.
Everyone knew her. Everyone feared her. Guards stepped aside without being asked. She was terrifying in a maternal kind of way—the kind of woman who could bless you and curse you in the same breath and mean both.
She walked straight into Luca's office, the smell of home-cooked food following her. "Diavolino!" she called warmly, closing the door behind her. "Traffic was a nightmare. Madonna mia. But it's alright—I can put the food in the micro thing. Heat it up for you."
"Alright, Nonni. Go ahead."
She set the containers down, muttering softly to herself, then froze.
Her eyes locked onto the pizza box sitting innocently on the table.
She gasped, scandalised. "Diavolino!"
"What?" Luca snapped automatically, irritation flaring—until he followed her line of sight. His stomach dropped. "Shit. Nonni, no! No!" He moved quickly. "It's not mine. I swear, it's not mine."
She turned slowly, hands on her hips, unimpressed.
"You know me," he added hurriedly. "I will not eat out. I only eat what you make for me."
"If you wanted pizza, you should have told me. I will make you pizza." Nonnina cried, hands flying to her chest.
"Nonni, you are not listening to me!" Luca snapped. "It's Marco's. Marco ordered pizza."
The drama drained from her face in an instant. Her shoulders relaxed. Her lips pursed. "Ah," she said. "Then why didn't you say so?"
Luca opened his mouth, then closed it again. Fuck.
Nonnina sighed. "You know I worry about you, Diavolino," she said softly now, all fire replaced with concern. "Your line of work… too many enemies. Too many people who want you dead." She reached out and touched his cheek. "You be careful."
"I know, Nonnina. I know. That's why you're the only woman I love." He pulled her into a hug.
"Stupid boy," she muttered into his shoulder, smacking his back lightly. "You have a wife. Love her too."
Luca pulled back, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask for one, Nonnina," he said. "I have too many distractions already."
He turned away and walked back to his seat.
Nonnina headed toward the corner of the office where a microwave and coffee maker sat. She bent slightly, reaching behind the machine.
She straightened, holding up a pair of red underwear between two fingers.
"Distractions like all the women you bring in here?" she asked.
"Just throw that in the bin, Nonni," he said tiredly. "Please."
Nonnina shook her head slowly and whispered, "Diavolino," under her breath.
"Have you been talking to her. The… wife?" Luca asked.
Nonnina slid the porcelain dish into the microwave and turned it on. "Do you want me to?" she asked, not looking at him.
"I don't know," he replied honestly. "Since when have you ever done what I tell you?"
She smiled then. "She is a good girl. Your father chose her. She knows what it means to be a Genovese. She has been groomed and trained for years, Diavolino."
"I don't know her," Luca said.
"Because you chose not to," Nonnina answered gently. "Invite her here. Let her give you everything you need in a woman."
"This is the first time you will really talk to me about it, Nonni. Why?" He paused, nostrils flaring as the smell of meat filled the room. His stomach growled traitorously. "Hmmm… that smells fucking good."
"I have looked after you since you were born," she said quietly. "You have had everything except someone who loves you softly."
Soft love. He knew hunger. Control. Heat. He knew bodies arching beneath his hands. He knew the dark thrill of desire, the rush of orgasms and the hollow quiet that followed. But soft love?
"You love me softly," Luca countered.
Nonni rolled her eyes and smacked his hand the moment his fingers reached for the microwave. "Wait. It's almost ready," she scolded, planting herself squarely between him and the food.
"I'm starving," he complained, exaggerated, dramatic, the same way he had when he was twelve and growing too fast for his own bones.
"You will not die in five minutes," she shot back. "Madonna mia, such theatrics."
There was a knock on the door and Marco entered. He glanced at Nonnina first, dipping his head slightly before turning to Luca. "Boss, Scalese says he has a proposition for you and would like to speak with you in person."