Primo had sat in this same kitchen as a sullen teenager, wolfing down impossible amounts of pasta — and she had known better than to tease him about what they were feeding him at home, or to ask her husband what he’d been doing to work up such an appetite. Now he’s grown and he turns up when her husband is nowhere around — when Leonardo is in town on business, bound to be home late -- but he always comes with an appetite.

“My onions will burn,” Regina says, but she doesn’t put up too much of a protest. When Primo lifts her up against the kitchen table the dishes rattle and the tablecloth rucks up. His grip on her thighs makes her gasp. Pressed against his lean body she’s confronted by how strong he is — how many men has he killed, she wonders, at close range, just like this?

He kisses her breasts, burying his face in her dress. Regina strokes his sleek dark hair and tries to keep one eye on the stove.

This is a wicked thing they’re doing, here in the middle of the family home. Primo lowers his head. Soon his mouth is on her thighs, the scratch of his mustache and the press of his teeth — he takes wicked little bites, hard enough to make her yelp and squirm, and works his way up to the hot secret place at the apex of her legs.

“Does your husband do this to you?” Primo asks, raising his head long enough to fix her with those strange eyes of his; Regina shakes her hair with annoyance and spreads her thighs, but she does not answer. His mouth finds the damp cleft of her vulva through her knickers, and his tongue fits against her like it’s meant for this.