8. SauceBlood?
Chapter 8
Sauce or Blood?
Antonella
I unpack the last of my clothing—two hours to unpack all of my belongings. And I even procrastinated and got distracted at some points. How pathetic is my life? Ten boxes. And not even the large ones. Thank God I put away those intimate items without prying eyes on me.
They have already set up my TV for me on the dresser and plugged it in. I only have to turn it on. I’m shocked there isn’t one in here already—with how expensive and over-the-top everything is. My drug store soap bottles look extremely out of place in the shower.
That’s for sure.
I plop down on the bed and open my laptop to apply for more jobs. Can’t give up on it yet. Just because I have the café doesn’t mean I have to leave my dream job behind, right? It gives me the opportunity to shop around for something I desperately want. A good fit. Like?—
My phone vibrates with a text. Okay, two.
Audie
You alive?
Did he murder you yet?
Do I need to call the cops?
Three. Jesus . Chill. “Audie, you see the read receipt.” I snort while I type my response.
No
Don’t fuck with me. I’ll come find you myself.
I’m fine, Audie.
That’s not really convincing.
My nose scrunches up as I type my sassy reply, but a knock on the door pulls me out of it.
“How’s it going?” Giordano struts into the room like he owns the place. Oh, wait. He does.
I instantly inhale his strong scented sandalwood cologne; my eyes threatening to roll to the back of my skull in pure euphoria. I’m seriously tempted to buy a candle of a similar scent to light when he’s not around. Peculiar? Maybe. Is this becoming an addiction?
“I finished a while ago.” I smirk up at him from the bed. He’s shirtless, with abs for days . My attempt to keep a demure attitude fails as a loud snort burst through my nose.
His eyes graze down my back to my ass, and then back up to my face. I raise a brow and stand, pulling my button-up pajama top across my cropped tank top—feeling exposed all of a sudden. I wasn’t expecting him to come in here. And I’m nowhere near in shape as he is.
“You’re stunning in blue,” he says.
I frown, dropping my glare to the royal blue snowflake pajamas I’m wearing. Entirely out of season, but I’m always freezing. “What makes you say that?”
How do I take a compliment? I should tell him thank you and move on. But, no. It’s not easy. Not for dear Antonella. I have to make every single interaction with this bellissimo man awkward.
“You’re wearing the blue color. I think you’re pretty. Therefore, I told you.” He leans against the door frame. His hands sliding up to the top of the frame, exposing his veiny biceps. My weakness.
“O—oh?” I stammer on every single word known in existence—more noticeably—the lack of my words. I’m currently choking on all of the air in my lungs. If ‘ lkajdsf;aej’ was a person… it’d be me right now. “I’m having palpitations,” I whisper. “I am having palpitations !”
He raises a thick brow with a cocky smirk lurking up on his stupid scarred cheek while leaning in further, flexing . Mannaggia, he knows exactly what he’s doing—and showing off.
“I mean, look at me.” I snort, waving my hands all around.
“I am,” his voice is a feral growl. My eyes widen as he releases the door frame and takes a step into the room. He clears his throat, breaking the tension between us. “Do you have work tomorrow?”
Subject change. Perfect. I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“Unfortunately, I do. But I can’t wait to come home to your smiling face.”
“Have a good night.” I smile at him, my body hotter than before. He’s beginning to have this effect on me. I can’t tell whether I like it or not yet. I’m leaning toward the former.
“Goodnight, amore.” He pivots on his heels, walking down the hallway; leaving me alone with my depraved thoughts.
Again .
I ease into the comfortable bed after taking a long, well-deserved hell-temperature shower. Thinking about the man on the opposite side of the house.
For far too long.
The entire day goes by agonizingly slow. Giordano’s been at work—or so he says. Either way, it isn’t any of my business where he is. However, the thought of him out with another female has me uneasy. Even though it shouldn’t.
We’re only friends.
Roommates.
Amici.
I sit in a lounge chair near the pool, thinking about ways I could make him happy. Pay him back. Make him aware I appreciate him—in a friendly way, of course. I can’t get ahead of myself. I don’t want to attempt driving yet, and don’t have much saved up in my bank account for a worthy gift.
However, if there’s one thing I can do to pay him back—cooking’s the best option.
He loves food.
I stand, and walk away from the lounge chair and into the kitchen, taking in all of the possibilities. I press the play button on my phone, setting the vibe with a little cooking music.
I open up the door to the butler’s pantry and walk right in. A magical three course dinner fit for me and a starving Italian man—coming right up.
Antipasto platter, filled with meats and cheeses, spaghetti, and for dessert… cannoli.
I reach my arm out to grab the door handle of the stainless steel fridge, and stop dead in my tracks when I gaze upon my strawberry magnet. “I thought this got lost during the move,” I whisper.
I even cried about it. I wasn’t going to say anything, of course. I didn’t want him to feel bad about it. Or embarrass myself because, again, it’s a magnet .
Instead, here it is.
The strawberry magnet’s special to me. It’s the first thing I bought for myself with the money I got from my first ever job as a teenager. Sure, it’s silly. But it reminds me every time of how far I’ve come.
Also, it’s cute.
I shake my head with a huge grin on my lips as I grab the cheese from the fridge and then shut the door. I turn the volume on my phone all the way up and then boil a pot of water for the spaghetti.
Figuring out where everything’s at is the hardest part, though, I find everything I’m looking for and throw the noodles into the pot. How much do I need? What is a serving size?
We don’t know her.
I make it all— leftovers for days.
“My my , I lived to see the day,” a small, older lady’s voice says. I jump, pressing pause on the music playing on my phone. When I turn, I find an older woman, with grey hair in a slicked back bun. She’s shorter than I am—probably barely even four-foot-eleven.
“I’m sorry. We haven’t met before. I’m?—”
“Antonella, sì. I’ve heard much about you.”
“You must be Maria.” I turn to stir the noodles, hoping they aren’t sticking together. Did I salt the water? Um, I can’t remember. I throw some salt into the pasta water and then some over my shoulder.
“I’m not sure if I must be, but yes. I had no idea you are cooking dinner tonight.” She walks over to me and begins slicing cheese for the platter.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I don’t mind, dear. I’ve been working for the Marzano’s for years now. This is the first time he’s ever brought a woman home.”
“He doesn’t know I’m cooking tonight,” I whisper.
“Ah. I see, I see. Sorpresa, no? ”
“Sì,” I giggle. Her eyes light up at the sound of me speaking the same language. She places her hand over her heart, then goes back to slicing a few more pieces of cheese. “I got it from here, if you’d like to take the night off.”
She gasps. “I haven’t had a meal off in a long time. He eats like he’s the whole football team.”
“Would you like to eat with us?” I giggle.
“I appreciate the offer, but if I’m going to have a night off—I’m going out.” She laughs, placing the cubed cheeses onto the wooden board.
“Have a lovely night, Maria. Nice meeting you!” I drain the noodles into the large, one-basin, stainless steel, sink.
“Enjoy, Antonella.” She waves, walking into the hallway, off of the kitchen. I press play on the phone again and continue to cook all the food, jamming out in peace. I have a whole thirty minutes until he’ll be home.
I place the last platter onto the dining room table, and walk back into the kitchen to grab the lighter I caught a glimpse of when I was searching the drawers for a pasta server. I walk back into the room, and light the candles which are in the middle of the table surrounded by plates and bowls of food.
Four spots are set on each end, but only two have wine glasses. One for me, and one for him.
He sits in the chair on the opposite end while shrugging off his suit jacket. “What a beautiful display. Maria has truly outdone herself this time. Surely, showing off for new compa?—”
“I made dinner.” I interrupt him—taking the credit for what I’ve done. “I… was already cooking when she walked in. First time we met, actually.” I giggle, feeling awkward in my own bo dy. “I gave her the night off, if it’s okay. I told her I’d cook for you.”
The glower on his face lessens while he gapes at all the food I’ve prepared for him. Is he mad I dismissed his housekeeper without telling him? What am I thinking? I’m a guest here, trying to be nice.
I gulp and say, “I’m sorry. I overstepped. I?—”
“I love it, amore. I adore you . Everything looks and smells delicious .” He piles the spaghetti noodles onto his plate and doesn’t stop until the giant mountain of noodles can’t be packed on anymore. “I’ve been dying to have your spaghetti, again. Apologies aren’t necessary. I’m sure she’s happy to have the night off.”
“She is. It’s my way of thanking you for well— everything .” I give him a crooked grin and an awkward chuckle.
He shovels bite after bite into his mouth and his forest green eyes flicker with happiness. “Don’t tell Momma I think your spaghetti is better than hers,” he whispers.
Why’s he whispering? We’re the only two people here.
“I’ve never met your mother. But, I’ll keep your secret.” I laugh as I twirl the noodles around my fork. “How was your day?”
“Got a lot done.” He hums, taking a sip of his wine.
Vague response.
“Good. Glad to hear it. Care to share details of what made you…” Ah, yikes. How do I phrase this without sounding money-hungry? Do I straight up ask the word? Fuck it. “Wealthy?” I gulp. I never have brought up his finances before. “Not because I care about your money.”
Phew . There, I did it. Also, I’d be a liar if I said I’m not curious about what he does. Seriously, he’s either a secret agent in the FBI, or a serial killer.
One of the two.
He laughs. “I wish I could tell you. But, you wouldn’t be safe anymore if you knew, amore.”
My entire face contorts. What does he mean? “ Um?—”
“Not because I can’t trust you, amore. I want to tell you. I do .”
“Nothing you said is logical.” I swirl the wine around in my glass by the stem. Do I let it go and trust his judgment? I mean who am I to be all up in his business, anyway. However, this undoubtedly adds a tally mark to my serial killer inclination.
“I have a tech company in town. The office is near the coffee shop you work at. Right down the block,” he reluctantly says.
“Is that why you come in every morning?”
His head bobs up and down while inhaling the food like air.
I sit still, stirring around in my thoughts, debating if I should say anything or not. A secret military agent wouldn’t have time to do business stuff, right? Or maybe he would—I don’t know anything.
Instead, I keep my mouth shut. Because , I’m adding another tally to serial killer . Why doesn’t it turn me off? New kink unlocked—perchance?
Oddio, I need therapy.
He glances down at the plates of food, eyes opening wide open. “You made cannoli ?”
“Yes?”
He grabs one and shoves the entire thing in his mouth. My eyes round at his lack of table manners. He’s a grown ass man shoveling food into his mouth like a child.
What the hell does he do for a living? Working in an office certainly can’t have him this hungry, can it? Also, how does he fit a whole cannoli in his mouth?
He has to be killing people .
He swallows the rest of his food while grinning at me, patting his lips with a napkin. “You’re amazing at making food and coffee. I’m keeping you forever, okay?”
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. “Thanks for the high praise and complimentary kidnapping.” I joke, of course. Unless?
His face goes white as if he’s seen a ghost. “ No , I didn’ t mean?—”
“I’m kidding .” Clearly, a touchy subject. Noted. Another tally. He knows I’m on to him.
“Good.” His shoulders visibly drop, and the small little crows feet around his eyes disappear. “Thank you for the dinner, amore.”
I stand, plucking up dishes one by one off of the table. “I got the dishes.” I glance up, almost dropping a dish.
My brows shoot up in horror as he’s in front of me, holding his plate. I hold back a scream as I zero in on a giant splotch of blood on his shirt. “There’s blood! You’re bleeding !” I shriek, my trembling hands gripping tightly onto what I’m holding so I don’t break the ceramic. Adding more blood to the situation won’t help.
Has he been hurt this whole time? Why didn’t he say anything?
He shifts his gaze down and untucks the shirt from his pants. He hums, as if it’s just a ketchup stain. “Not my blood, amore.” He lifts the shirt up and off his body, revealing his delicious, defined shoulder muscles and six pack abs. His forearms and biceps are ripped and veiny. He exercises more than the average man.
“Why would you have—” I inhale a shaky breath. “Not your blood on your shirt?” I gulp, staring at his stomach where the blood on his shirt is. There’s no wound. It being not his blood, only raises more questions. “Well, then whose blood is it?”
He doesn’t answer me, of course. Do I really want to know? Oh, wonderful. This is what I get for living with a stranger.
Karma.
Karma.
Karma.
I agree to one free ride… and damn it, he’s either a serial killer, or in the fucking mob.