Page 28 of Lost Prince
Matteo makes exaggerated choking sounds. "Okay, okay, enough with the mushy stuff. I can't breathe!"
We all burst into laughter. As we pull apart, I catch Lana's eye and see her smiling at me. I feel her love, her sense of completeness when I'm around. I sense it too, and for the first time since I've returned, I feel like I'm truly home.
11
DIANA
Istand at the kitchen door straining to hear the conversation in the adjoining room. Worry gnaws at my insides. How will they treat Lazaro? Will they understand his struggle? I know they love him, but they’re so focused on him getting his memory back and being the man they once knew that they fail to see how tormented he is.
The voices in the other room rise and fall. I hear anger, frustration, and then… laughter? Matteo's deep chuckle breaks through the tension, followed by softer tones. I lean closer, pressing my ear against the cool wood of the door.
Suddenly, silence falls. I hold my breath, afraid they've caught me eavesdropping. But then I hear shuffling, followed by Lana's muffled protest and laughter. Curiosity gets the better of me. I crack open the door just enough to peek through. The D'Amatos and Matteo are tangled in a group hug, squeezing Lana in the middle.
Joy mixed with longing washes through me. It's beautiful to see them come together like this, to witness the love that binds them despite their struggles. But it also stirs a deep ache withinme. What would it be like to be part of such moments with Lazaro? To have a family that cares so deeply?
I close the door quietly, not wanting to intrude on their private moment. I shake off the wistful thoughts and remind myself of my position. It's impossible to hope for more with Lazaro. I'm just the assistant chef, and Lazaro… well, he's way out of my league.
I throw myself into food prep, chopping vegetables with renewed vigor. The rhythmic thud of my knife against the cutting board soothes, helping to ground me in the present. Around me, Anna and the others do their jobs, often coming and going to deliver food and drinks or take care of other household chores.
As lunchtime closes in, I prepare the sandwich I want to make for Lazaro hoping he’ll stop by to eat. It’s silly, I know. It’s unwise to get involved with him, and yet, as long as he shows interest in me or needs my company, I’ll be there for him.
I'm wiping down the counter when I sense a change in the air. Looking up, I see Lazaro filling the doorway. His presence immediately alters the atmosphere in the kitchen. The other staff members scatter like startled mice, leaving me alone with him.
Their reaction irritates me. Can't they see he's just a person, not some monster to be feared?
"Hey," I say, trying to keep my voice casual despite the flutter in my stomach. "You're just in time. I made you something special for lunch.”
Lazaro grunts in response, his typical sparse dialogue. But as he moves further into the kitchen, I notice something different about him. There's a calmness to his demeanor that wasn't there before. The tension that usually radiates from him isn’t quite as intense.
"If you're hungry, that is,” I finish.
He nods, taking a seat at the kitchen table. I busy myself with assembling the sandwich, sneaking glances at him as I work. His face is relaxed, the ever-present scowl soft.
"How did things go with your family?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
"Better than expected.”
I slide the plate in front of him. "That's good to hear. I hope you like this. It's a new recipe I've been working on."
Lazaro picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. I watch nervously as Lazaro takes his first bite.
His eyes widen slightly, and he nods in approval. "This is really good.”
My heart soars at his praise. “I’m glad you like it.”
Encouraged by his response, I chatter away as he eats. I tell him about all the barbecue recipes I’ve gathered on my travels through the south from Texas to Louisiana to Missouri and up through Tennessee.
Lazaro doesn't say much, but I can tell he's listening, occasionally nodding or grunting in response to something I say.
As I talk, I realize how comfortable I feel around him. Despite his intimidating appearance and reputation, there's something about Lazaro that puts me at ease just as I seem to put him at ease. Maybe it's the way he looks at me, like he's really seeing me, not just looking through me like so many others do.
“Did you always like cooking?” he asks as he downs the last bite of his sandwich.
I have to think about that. I don’t ever recall deciding to cook, and cooking isn’t the only job I’ve ever had. But as I think of the origins of my cooking, I see that it’s not about food prep. It’s about connection.
“When I was bouncing around in foster care, I'd often end up in the kitchen, helping to prepare meals. I guess it’s true what they say. The kitchen is the heart of the home.”
He looks up at me, his eyes watching as if he’s looking for something.