At fourteen, I had thought that was insane.
At twenty-seven, stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious and tasted like emotional consequences, I understood her completely.
Caelin had texted earlier, to his credit.
Office hours were apparently dead now, murdered by supernatural confession and my threat of legal violence. He had asked what I wanted for dinner and offered to bring takeout, which was almost sweet enough to make me reconsider the plan.
Almost.
Too bad for him, takeout crashed violently against Sicilian justice.
So I had told him not to bring anything.
Then I made Nonna’s recipe.
One spoon of spice after another.
A little sweetness in the scent.
A little betrayal in the aftertaste.
A little heat that arrived late, like a lawsuit well-served.
I smiled down at
