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The kitchen looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel—huge and gleaming with stainless steel. Dante opened the fridge and pulled out eggs, bacon, and cheese, moving with the practiced ease of a professional chef.
"You can cook?" I asked, perched on a stool at the center island, watching him whisk the eggs.
"My mother taught me," he said. "She was Sicilian. Believed the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She was wrong. My father still ran off with a younger woman."
His tone was flat, like he was talking about someone else's life.
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