Kingdom of the Wicked (Kingdom of the Wicked, #1)(54)

Twenty-Five

I pulled the mortar and pestle from the shelf, face strained in concentration as I gathered up the olive oil, garlic, almonds, basil, pecorino, and cherry tomatoes for the pesto alla Trapanese. On days such as this, when the sun was sweltering before noon and even the thinnest dress clung like a second skin, I enjoyed adding fresh mint to the tomato pesto. Unfortunately, we were out of it at the moment.

I set my supplies down and pulled up my wavy hair, allowing a few shorter strands to frame my face. There were no flowers in my locks today—they’d go limp and wither in moments. The back of my neck was already sticky and the day had only just begun. I was seriously reconsidering my choice to wear white as I tied an apron over my sleeveless dress. I would have prefered to keep my magical tattoo hidden, but there was no way I’d survive the heat, even with sheer sleeves. Hopefully, no one in my family would notice the pale ink, especially if I angled my arm away.

I was deep in thoughts of picturing Wrath trying the tomato pesto when my mother joined me in our little kitchen and grabbed sardines from the ice box.

“You didn’t come home.” My mother wasn’t asking, and her tone was almost as sharp as the knife she was using to debone the fish. “Would you care to explain where you were all night?”

I would sooner sell my soul.

I kept my attention on the pesto, crushing the almonds just right. There was no way I was admitting to working with a blood-drinking demon to solve Vittoria’s murder. And not only had I temporarily aligned myself with one of the Malvagi, but I had also spoken with two others.

Oh, and, by the way, an invisible mercenary demon was following me around, sputtering cryptic warnings, attacked Nonna, and might assassinate me if ordered to. Then, I’d almost died in a Viperidae attack, and a prince of Hell saved me using ancient, dark magic that required both of us to be naked in a tub. My mother’s head would spin. But at least the tattoo wouldn’t seem half as bad.

“I was at the monastery.”

“I know.”

I jerked my gaze to hers, startled. “How?”

“Fratello Antonio stopped by this morning, concerned.” She went at the next sardine with gusto. Slipping the knife under the skin, dragging it down the spine. “He said you were with a young man. A friend of our family’s. Said his name was an odd one.”

“I—”

“Save your lies, child.” Mamma’s grip on her knife tightened. “They’re the gateway to Hell.”

I snapped my mouth shut. My mother must know. She must have seen through my ruse, and had somehow pieced together that I’d used the dark arts. And Fratello Antonio Bernardo had confirmed her fears. I swallowed hard, debating how honest I should be with her.

“Well, you see—”

“Tumbling around dark places with handsome young men might distract from the pain for a little while, but it won’t ever take it away. You need to find your own inner strength for that.”

“I—what?”

Mamma shook her knife in my direction. “Don’t go pretending you have no idea what I’m saying. You’re lucky your grandmother was sleeping and didn’t overhear him. She has enough to worry about while she’s healing. She doesn’t need to stress over devilish men. Fratello Antonio told me all about that young man. From the sound of it, you’ve bewitched him, too. Antonio said he called you his Emilia. You’re no one’s but your own, girl. Don’t ever forget it.”

Sweet goddess above. This was so much worse than Nonna finding out I’d summoned a demon. Heat blossomed across my face and crept down my neck that had nothing to do with the soaring temperatures. My mother thought Wrath and I had been . . .

I might die of mortification.

Even picturing him naked, tugging me to his solid, tattooed body, radiating his infuriating heat as he put his stupid mouth on mine and I gripped him back like he was both my eternal damnation and salvation as we . . .

I needed to stop that train of thought immediately. I wasn’t as disgusted by the image as I’d thought I’d be.

I knew Wrath’s juvenile taunt would come back to sink its nasty fangs into me one day. I just hadn’t quite pictured it occurring like this.

Mamma set her knife down, her expression softening. She completely misread the reason behind my reddening face. “Love or enjoy whoever’s company you want. But you need to be more careful. If your father had answered the door . . .” she trailed off, not having to finish the sentence to drive the point home.

Pummeling the person who was “tumbling” his daughter would be the perfect way to work out some of his own grief. Defending a daughter’s honor was an age-old male pastime. Antiquated human behavior aside, I couldn’t believe Antonio had come to our home.

My attention sought out the little clock for the thousandth time. The afternoon was dragging by. There were hours left until I had to meet Wrath. To give my hands something to do besides fantasize about wrapping themselves around Antonio’s neck, I removed the damp cloth from the mound of dough and began rolling the pasta for the busiate.

I couldn’t believe I ever wanted to kiss that nosy fool.

“Oh, and Emilia?” I paused my assault of the dough and looked at my mother. “Make extra busiate. I promised Antonio you’d bring some over today with your apologies.”