Page 106 of Forged

The penthousein the Marchetti Tower sits high above the city, its windows glowing warmly against the darkening skyline when I step out of the elevator later that evening. One of Lars’s security men stands near the door, his posture relaxed but watchful as the elevator doors slide shut behind me.

“Mr. Santori?”

“That’s me.”

The guard reaches for the handle and opens the door before I have a chance to knock.

Warm light spills into the hallway as Neomi stands in the entryway, barefoot, a loose sweater slipping off one shoulder as she looks up and smiles.

“You came.”

“Of course I did.”

She steps aside to let me in. The music playing softly from the living room speakers blends with the sounds of cooking. The space feels lived in—comfortable yet modern furniture, art on the walls, the counter by the stove filled with a cutting board and various vegetables.

Lars stands at the kitchen island with a bottle of wine in hand and three glasses lined up in front of him. He’s in the middle of pouring when I step inside, the rich scent of spices drifting through the room.

He glances up.

“Good evening.” He smiles broadly.

“Evening.”

He finishes filling the third glass before sliding one toward me across the marble counter.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

I take the glass and glance toward the stove where Neomi is stirring something in a wide skillet.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” I say. “Takeout would’ve been fine.”

Neomi laughs softly and turns to look at me.

“Oh, absolutely not. Once you’ve had a dinner cooked by Lars, you’ll never want takeout again.”

Lars lets out a quiet breath and shakes his head, a flush rising along his neck as he reaches for the cork, placing it back in the bottle.

“She exaggerates.”

“I do not,” Neomi says, leaning her hip against the counter. “The man cooks like an Italian grandmother.”

That earns a reluctant smile from him.

“I like cooking,” Lars admits, lifting his glass. “It’s one of the few things in life where patience actually improves the outcome.”

He takes a sip before adding with quiet amusement, “And I prefer feeding people to ordering food in plastic containers.”

The three of us fall into conversation easily after that. Lars moves between the stove and the counter while Neomi and I lean against the island with our wine. The tension from dinner last night has softened into something more relaxed.

Neomi glances over at me.

“So, where are you from?”

“Virginia,” I say. “A small town outside Roanoke.”

Her eyes brighten. “I’ve passed through that area before.”

“It’s the kind of place people usually pass through,” I reply sarcastically.