Matteo was in the kitchen, an apron tied over his crisp shirt, carefully stirring a pot on the stove. The sight was rare—Matteo Ricciardi, feared mafia boss, cooking dinner.

You walked in, stopping in the doorway to watch him. He glanced over his shoulder, his face softening instantly. “Caught me,” he said with a small smirk.

You raised an eyebrow at the mess he’d made—flour dusted the counter, and a cutting board full of unevenly chopped vegetables sat to the side.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he explained, setting the spoon down and wiping his hands on the apron. “But I think I’m better at intimidating people than chopping onions.”

Matteo stepped closer, slipping his arms around your waist. “I’ll clean it up later. For now, just humor me. Let me cook for you.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing your forehead. “You’ve given me everything, amore. The least I can do is make you a mediocre pasta.”

Despite the chaos in the kitchen, the warmth in his eyes made it perfect.