Tied Bond (Holly Woods Files, #4) (13 page)

Shit.

“Nonna, you cannot just take over my kitchen like this.”

“Why-a not-a? I have-a a key!”

“In case of emergencies!” I slap my hand against my forehead. “Not to cook because you and Mom had another fight.”

“Pah!” She bangs her fist into the middle of the doughy ball in the center of my kitchen table. “She-a always fight-a with-a me!”

“I’m sure it’s all her fault.” I roll my eyes and move toward the fridge, dumping my purse on the counter to avoid Nonna’s flour, which is currently giving my dining set a makeover. “Why would it be your fault?”

“You-a just-a like-a her!”

“Oh, please. You’re insane.” I pull the wine bottle out. “But that doesn’t excuse you. You can’t just barge into my house and take over my kitchen.”

“I will-a clean-a up.” She furiously kneads the dough. “You won’t-a know-a I was-a here.”

“If only the mental scars could be cleared,” I say under my breath. I should just skip the wine glass and go straight from the bottle. Clearly that’s the flavor of the—actually, wait.

I put the bottle back into the rack and reach to the top of the back shelf. My hand connects with cardboard, and aha.

Boxed wine. How classy, stressed ladies get drunk.

“You-a drink-a too much.” Nonna tuts, dumps the dough into a large mixing bowl, then covers it with plastic wrap.

“You talk too much.” I put the box back in the fridge and grab the cold, full glass of wine. “And that’s
why
I drink too much.”

She rolls her dark eyes and pushes a wisp of hair from her eyes, smearing flour across her forehead. Why not? She’s already covered my table and chairs in it. Probably the floor too.

“What are you cooking? And why are there various bowls of everything taking over my kitchen?”

“Garlic-a bread,” she answers, pointing to one bowl. “Bread-a rolls.” The next. “Bag-a-guette.”

Excellent. My kitchen is a makeshift bakery.

“Why do you need so much bread?”

“It-a isn’t all-a mine.” She sniffs, washes her hands, then reaches for a tea towel. “Some-a for me, for-a you, for-a Drake, and-a Trent. He ask-a for-a garlic-a bread.”

“Let me guess… Silvio wants it.”

“Silvio always-a want-a it.” Nonna cackles, rounding the table and going to the fridge.

Before I can ask her what she’s doing, she pulls out a big pack of ground beef, garlic, and a huge chunk of mozzarella.

“And-a he want-a meatballs, so I make-a meatballs.”

I wish she’d respect what I want this much. Sheesh.

She begins her arduous process of rolling meatballs, and it’s only when there are ten sitting on my chopping board that I realize…

“Nonna, that’s a lot of meatballs for a four-year-old.”

“
Si.
”

I pause. “Just
si
? No explanation?”

“He like-a meatballs.”

“And I like to relax after work, but here you are.”

“Noella, you-a driving me-a crazy.”

“Impossible. I can’t take you to a place you’re the mayor of.”

She whispers under her breath in Italian, but I’m pretty sure she just called me a cocky little shit—something she’d never say in English. I don’t blame her. Swear words are much more fun in Italian.

My front door slams open and closed, and I jump. Wine sloshes out of my glass and onto my hand, and unashamedly, I put the glass down and lick the wine from the back of my hand.

Hey, if I’m drinking boxed wine, I’m licking it off my hand. That’s all.

“Hey,” I say slowly, watching as Drake shrugs his jacket off and throws it over the bottom of my banister. “What bit your balls?”

He turns, his eyes spitting fire, but for once, not at me. Just in general. I know what this means.

“Whoever murdered my ex-stepfather.”

“Ah, Trent told you.”

“You knew?”

I pull a beer from the fridge, uncap it, then pass it to him. “Yeah. I stopped by and saw him this morning.”

“You didn’t tell me?” He takes the ice-cold bottle from me.

“And face your wrath? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that stupid.” I grin, and it widens when his lips twitch.

Five seconds in my company and he’s already calmer. God, I’m good.

“What-a happened?”

“Jesus, Nonna!” Drake coughs and takes a step back, thumping his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Nonna cackles, and the timer on my oven goes off. She has my oven on? How didn’t I notice that?

“
Mi dispiace
.” She apologizes, then puts my oven mitts on and opens the oven.

The smell of garlic bread fills the room, and I take a deep breath in as the hot, bready scent hits me.

Mmm, so good.

“Uh, Nonna? How long have you been here?”

“Four-a hours.” She answers me so nonchalantly and sets the pan on the counter. “I keep-a busy.”

“Is that garlic bread?” Drake puts his bottle down and walks across the kitchen.

“Ah ah ah!” Nonna waves a knife in his direction. “No!”

“Put the damn knife down, Nonna. I was only going to look.”

“And see if it’s possible to tear any off,” I add to his sentence.

“Wasn’t.” He eyes the bread.

“Liar. Look at you. You’re like a teenaged boy looking at a Playboy magazine.”

“I have a hard-on?”

“Ay yai yai,” Nonna mutters, slamming the knife down.

“If you get a hard-on over garlic bread, we’re breaking up.” I look at him pointedly and sip my wine.

“It’s really hot garlic bread,” Drake responds, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Of-a course,” Nonna butts in, mitts back on so she can move the pan away from Drake. “It-a just came-a out-a the oven.”

“Well, there you go.” Drake throws his arms up before leaning back and crossing them. “Hot from the oven. That told me.”

I smile into my glass.

“You-a sassing me-a, Drake?” Nonna spins—this time, a wooden spoon in her hand.

Fucking hell. Never mind a one-man band—she’s a one-woman utensil pot.

“Never, Nonna. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I snort. “Dirty liar.”

“I’m gonna come over there and kick your ass, Bond. I’m not in the mood for your shit.”

“Try it. I dare you. See what happens to you.”

“All right.”

Shit. Shouldn’t have done that.

Drake moves toward me with powerful steps, and I dart to the side. Nonna is in the middle of my escape path—see: route around the table—so I dance around her, laughing as Drake gets closer to me.

“Noella! Stop-a that-a in-a my kitchen!”

“It’s not your kitchen! It’s my—shit!”

Drake scoops me up and lifts me over his shoulder. I scream and clap my hand over my mouth. His shoulders are shaking with his ringing laughter, and he carries me toward my front door.

“Wait!” I shriek, kicking my legs so he has to put me down.

I run back to the kitchen and grab my purse… And my wine glass. It’s practically full. Priorities, people. They matter. And a full glass of wine just happens to be mine right now.

“Nonna, this is my kitchen. But, since it already looks like a culinary school threw up and it smells
really
good right now, and I quite like Mom alive, you can finish your feast for the five hundred. Just make sure you really do clean up and lock the door behind you.”

“I-a promise.”

“Please don’t forget. Last time, you left the back door open and I had to chase a raccoon out of my bathroom with a newspaper, a broom, and old-school Justin Bieber songs on full volume. I had to lie and say Aria was here.”

She grins. “
Si, si.
I-a cook and I-a clean. And-a lock-a up.”

“Yes. Great. And, uh, leave some of the food, will you?”

Her smile widens, and I take that as my cue to leave. No point poking the beast any further—or, worse, risking that she won’t leave me any food, because that’s also a priority high on my list.

Food, wine, and shoes.

And cupcakes. Technically food, but worthy of their own mention, because cupcakes.

“Okay. Let’s go,” I say to Drake, slipping my shoes on.

He drops his ice-blue gaze to my hand. “Are you bringing your wine?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. I’m just askin’.”

I sneak past him and walk through the open front door. “Then the answer is yes, I am bringing my wine.”

“Would the answer have been different if it had been a problem?”

The lights on his truck flash as he approaches it. I close my front door, leaving Nonna inside to her culinary heaven.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” I flash him a grin and climb in, taking care not to spill my wine.

He mutters something under his breath as he gets in his side and turns the key in the ignition. Probably counting to ten again.

We make the drive to his house in silence. He sighs several times, but every time I think he’s about to speak, he doesn’t. I can almost see the cogs of his brain turning as he thinks about whatever is on his mind. I’d bet anything it’s how he won’t be working on Wally’s case.

And, now, I’m thinking about how I will be—and about how Gianna doesn’t want him to know that.

Crap. So many things are wrong with this situation, mostly that I’m bound by client confidentiality not to tell him, but he’s my boyfriend and I tell him everything.

Ugh.

He pulls up in his driveway and gets out without a word. Clearly, without Nonna here as a buffer, his bad mood has returned with a vengeance. The worst thing is that I can’t even do anything to make it better. All I can do is listen to him as he vents and lets it all out. Presuming he’ll even do that—usually he doesn’t rant at me unless it’s my fault.

Maybe today will break the mold. I have to admit it’d be a nice change.

I follow him into the house, kick my shoes off, and go hunting for him. I don’t have to look hard—the slamming of cupboard doors gives it away pretty well. My feet take me to the kitchen, where I find him opening and closing the doors repeatedly.

“What are you doing?”

“Relieving my stress.” He slams another door then turns. “It isn’t working.”

“Aw, spoiler alert!” I put my glass on the table. “I wanted to figure it out by myself.”

“It’s usually cute, but your sass isn’t helping.”

“Sorry. Wanna talk about it?”

He shrugs. “What is there to say? You already know. I can’t work the case. Can’t even ask to be updated. I’m totally shut out, all because my goddamn mother is their prime suspect.” He stills and flattens his hands on the counter in front of him. His head drops down, and despite the tension in his arms, his shoulders are totally relaxed. “My mom, Noelle. The worst thing about this is that I’m starting to think she may have done it.”

I walk to him, and he turns to me, dropping one arm. Then I tightly wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head on his shoulder. His heart is pounding against his ribs, and I close my eyes as he returns the embrace and drops his chin on top of my head. He takes a deep breath and gently squeezes me.

This is all I can do. Just be here.

And try to prove that his mom is innocent.

Easy…

T
he smell of marinara sauce assaults me the second I step into my house.

Sweet shit, it’s like nose porn.

There are a number of plastic tubs in the middle of my table, as well as some jars. The jars contain the sauce responsible for the best smell in the world, and the tubs are filled with fresh spaghetti and pasta and meatballs. Good Lord—Nonna’s given me enough meatballs for at least a month.

She can steal my kitchen more often if this is how she thanks me. I have nowhere to put them, but whatever. They can live on the kitchen table for now.

I clean the coffee machine out and contemplate how to handle Gianna. I barely slept last night, going back and forth on what to do before I came to the realization that the anger Drake would feel if his mom was charged and prosecuted for Wally’s murder would be far greater than the anger he’d feel upon finding out I was involved in Wally’s case and working for her.

I’m also going to be hung up on the case anyway, so I may as well have a reason for getting involved in a murder investigation.

I just hope that, this time, investigating is all I’ll do. I’ve come gun-to-face with more than enough murderers this year, thank you very much.