I glance over my shoulder and Doc laughs. “Worried Basher’ll get jealous? Don’t. He likes sharing. Remember last night?”

Bobby’s cheeks go scarlet, but he doesn’t look angry. My insides tighten. I have no idea what I want to happen.

Doc slides off the bench and takes the cutting board out of my hands. “One kiss, Tesorina. That’s all.”

“Doc…”

“Domenico,” he corrects. “Whenever we do this, you call me by my real name.”

I look away. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was supposed to be a servant. To fade into the background.

Doc’s finger lifts my chin. “Just one little kiss.”

My eyes flick to Bobby. He’s watching the two of us with a strange expression on his face.

Doc bends down and nuzzles my neck. “Don’t be shy, baby. Basher knows how much you like kissing. He could taste it.”

I swallow, my mouth dry as toast. Doc smells like cigarettes and liquor, cologne and sweat. I know I should pull away, but I close my eyes instead.

“One kiss,” he says, so close I taste his words. “One kiss for me, then one kiss for Basher.”

“No,” I whisper.

“Yes. A kiss for both of us and then—”

“The fuck is happening here?”

I jump like someone fired a gun. Doc sighs, lowering his finger from my chin. “Perfect timing, Morelli.”

Eli stands in the doorway in a dark suit and red tie. As always, his angular beauty hits like a brick. I tuck my hair behind my ear. I felt untidy in front of Doc and Bobby. I feel disgusting in front of Eli.

“So this is where you’ve been all day, Domenico? Making Miss Whitehall clean the kitchen?”

Doc snorts. “I’ve been dealing with Romanov. The girl cleaned on her own.”

Eli gives him a skeptical look.

“Believe me. If it was my call, she’d be upstairs polishing something else.”

Eli glances at me. “Was the cleaning your idea, bella?”

I wish I’d done anything else today. Gone to the gym. Walked in the grounds. Even read a book. “Yes, um, it was.”

“I already offered her a maid outfit,” Doc says. “Want to kick in? Buy her a feather duster?”

Eli ignores him. He walks to the stovetop where the brodo is beginning to smell like heaven. He turns to me. “You can cook?”

“I… Yes?”

He walks closer, shiny shoes clicking on the newly washed floor. “You didn’t tell me you could cook.”

“I, um, didn’t think you’d want to know?”

He jerks a thumb behind him. “Is that Pastina di Pollo?”

“I don’t know. It’s… my Zia Teresa calls it brodo.”

“I see.” Eli’s expression is mild. Maybe my dinner is so inauthentic, he’s going to pour the entire pot down the sink.

“You don’t have to eat it,” I say quickly. “I just thought Harvey and the others would like it and I like it and I really wasn’t trying to… do anything…”

Eli’s gaze falls on the plastic-wrapped parmesan sitting beside the grater. His face darkens. “Cos’è questa merda disgustosa?” What is this disgusting shit?