Nikolai
Nikolai“Slice these for the olive and caper sauce,” Chelle instructs, spilling a handful of olives out of a jar onto the cutting board.
I pull a knife out the drawer and start. “I don’t even know what that means,” I admit. “How many slices?”
“What?”
“How many slices? To each olive?”
She laughs. “I don’t know—as many as you can get. It doesn’t really matter.” She moves around my kitchen swiftly, grabbing things from the refrigerator, turning on the oven.
I savor the way it feels to have her here.
Kitchens are the heart of a home. Our mother showed love from the kitchen. Upstairs, in the penthouse, the kitchen is the hub of the suite. It’s where everyone gathers, where our lives intersect in a non-bratva way.
And that’s still true, but the way I felt about it had changed afte
