Secondo was a difficult person to shop for. I mean, he was a lot wealthier than you, with him as Papa and you as a Sibling of Sin. So, what the Hell were you supposed to get your boyfriend for his birthday? It was the Roman Empire of anyone with a partner who was basically their sugar daddy. Were you supposed to buy him something with his money? Come on now.

You’d about made as many cards as you can think of (including but not limited to the most painstaking popup card with the Eiffel Tower, in which he had to politely remind you that the Eiffel Tower was in France and not Italy, although he very much so appreciated the gesture.) Yeah, no. Not again.

Well, he was always doing everything, and that included the cooking. Although he loved it, he had to have gotten a little tired, especially after working his ass off dealing with younger Cardinals all day who somehow didn’t know how to sign their names in cursive despite being well into their forties, only to come home to what had become a chore.

There was an abundance of recipe books in the library. That afternoon, you grabbed one, which specifically advertised itself as being foolproof and indistinguishable from authentic Italian cuisine.

Despite being a little complicated in some parts, you were able to put together a multi-course meal that somewhat resembled Olive Garden’s Tour of Italy. It smelled absolutely divine, and somehow tasted even better, and by the time Secondo got there that evening, the table was set and looking like something out of Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Dolcezza.” The word came out of his mouth as a statement alone, containing more appreciation than you had ever heard from him in his life, and trust me, he appreciated you a lot. “You might have beaten me out on this one. Contains plenty of love, hm? It’s wonderful.” He was singing your praises like a choir sings hymns.

He sniffed, and then his permanently furrowed brow wrinkled. “Is something burning?”

You cannot make this up. You heard a loud whoosh from the kitchen, and a suddenly very strong smell of burnt wheat and cheese reduced to ash. Your heads whipped around simultaneously, and witnessed as the pot of pasta left burning on the stove you forgot to turn off suddenly exploded into a tall, angry fire. Meanwhile, he tried his best not to snort.