Chapter 3 - The Recipe for Trust
Working in absolute synchronization, Sarah and Victor became an unexpected team. While Victor chopped, Sarah managed the stove, turning simple ingredients from the sprawling, half-stocked pantry into something that smelled warm, comforting, and deeply nostalgic.
"How do you know how to handle them?" Victor asked quietly, his voice kept low so the boys lounging on the kitchen stools couldn't easily eavesdrop. He kept his eyes fixed on the tomatoes he was dicing. "Every professional nanny we hired had degrees in child psychology from Ivy League schools. They crumbled in ten minutes."
"Degrees don't teach you how to look at a child who is hurting," Sarah replied, stirring a simmering pot of tomato sauce that filled the air with the rich scent of garlic and basil. "They were trying to manage your sons like corporate assets. Children don't need management, Mr. Rinaldi. They need boundaries wrapped in empathy."
Victor paused, the knife resting against the board. He looked at Sarah’s profile—her focused eyes, the faint dark circles of exhaustion beneath them, and the fierce determination etched into her jawline. He recognized that look. It was the look of someone fighting a war they couldn't afford to lose.
"You're fighting for something," Victor stated, not as a question, but as an observation. "You didn't come here just for the salary. People who look like you do when they are backed entirely into a corner."
Sarah's heart skipped a beat. A mafia boss was not a man you wanted investigating your personal life, especially when your entire world revolved around a secret custody battle against a wealthy, vindictive ex-husband.
"Let's just focus on getting dinner on the table before eight," Sarah deflected smoothly, plating the warm pasta she had quickly whipped together. "We have twenty minutes left."
She turned to Mason and Leo, who were still sitting in stubborn silence, watching her every move. She didn't scold them for the orange juice mess on the floor; she simply placed a warm plate of spaghetti in front of each of them, topped with grated parmesan cheese that looked like fresh snow.
"Eat," Sarah said simply. "If it tastes terrible, you have my full permission to throw it at the wall."
Leo blinked, picking up his fork. He took a cautious bite. The rich, savory flavor hit his palate, instantly reminding him of fleeting, faded memories from a kitchen that had been cold and silent for three years. He didn't say anything, but he took a second, larger bite.
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Mason followed suit. Within moments, the two boys were eating as if they hadn't eaten a proper home-cooked meal in months—which, in truth, they hadn't.
"Now," Sarah whispered, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "What about Ethan and Tommy?"
