We sit down at the table, which is beautifully set already. He’s got me sparkling apple juice and a side of pickles thanks to my new and embarrassingly stereotypical pregnancy cravings.
“Thanks for cooking for me.”
He nods. “Dig in. Those babies need to be fed and fed well.”
I cut into my chicken parm and the buttery, cheesy goodness wafts up towards me. I’m so worried about him that I have to force myself to take the first bite. But the moment all those spices hit my taste buds, I can’t put my knife and fork down.
“Well, if the whole Bratva pahkan thing doesn’t work out, you have a bright future as a chef.”
He smirks. He’s finished half his vodka but barely touched his entrée. I pretend not to notice.
“My parents haven’t noticed that anything is wrong,” I blurt out when I’m almost d
