Twisted Obsession

61 - A Bite of Truth

Athena Luciana Bianchi

He approaches the table with two plates in his hands, far too smug for my liking. The sleeves of his black T-shirt are rolled up just enough to reveal the toned muscles of his forearms, flexing slightly as he sets the dishes down. He's annoyingly attractive, infuriatingly composed—like he has all the time in the world while I sit here, barely containing my irritation.

Then, the scent hits me.

Rich, slow-simmered tomatoes. A hint of garlic and fresh basil. The unmistakable depth of Parmigiano-Reggiano, melting into a velvety, golden sauce. My gaze drops to the plate in front of me, and I nearly hate myself for the way my mouth waters. Ravioli. But not just any ravioli—delicate parcels of handmade pasta, each one perfectly sealed, filled with creamy ricotta and spinach. They're bathed in a silky, slow-cooked San Marzano tomato sauce, drizzled with browned butter, and dusted with shavings of cheese that melt into the warmth.

Of course, he would make this. Of all things.

I swallow down my frustration, but it's a losing battle. Because the bastard can cook. And worse—he knows this is my favorite.

Lorenzo takes his seat across from me, moving with that same effortless confidence that grates on my nerves. He leans back slightly, watching me with a look that borders on amusement, as if he already knows exactly how this is going to play out. The bastard.

I pick up my fork, more out of stubbornness than anything else, and spear a single, perfect raviolo. The pasta is delicate, almost weightless, giving way easily beneath the slight pressure of my fork. I scoop up a bit of the sauce along with it, the rich, glossy red clinging to the golden dough. I tell myself I won't react. Won't give him the satisfaction.

And then I take a bite.

Goddamn.

That was fucking delicious.

The pasta is impossibly tender, giving way to a filling so smooth, so perfectly seasoned, it practically melts on my tongue. The ricotta is creamy and light, infused with a touch of nutmeg, balanced by the slight bitterness of wilted spinach. The tomato sauce—bright, slow-cooked perfection—is kissed with the deep, nutty warmth of browned butter, coating my palate in layers of richness.

I hate him.

I school my expression into indifference, carefully setting my fork down as I swallow. But Lorenzo sees everything. He's already smirking, arms folded across his broad chest, looking at me like I've just confirmed something he already knew.

"Good?" he asks, far too smug for my liking.

I consider lying. Consider spitting out some dismissive comment just to wipe that look off his face. But what's the point? He knows. He fucking knows.

I take another bite.

His smirk deepens.

Lorenzo sits across from me, elbow propped on the table, chin resting lazily on his hand. His dark eyes flicker with amusement as he watches me, unbothered and entirely too smug. The candlelight casts sharp shadows along his jawline, accentuating the ever-present air of arrogance he wears like a second skin.

I narrow my eyes. He's enjoying this too much.

"Are you just going to stare at me the whole time?" I ask, setting my fork down with deliberate slowness.

"Obviously." His lips twitch, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

I exhale, tilting my head. "Why?"

"Because," he says smoothly, dragging the moment out just to irritate me, "I want to see if you're woman enough to admit how good it is."

I let the words hang between us, picking up my fork again. He's waiting, watching my every move like a predator entertaining itself with prey that hasn't yet realized it's caught. I take another bite—because I refuse to be the one who breaks the silence first.