Chapter Eleven
Bianca
The car crawls the last stretch of driveway, if one could even call the long, winding path a driveway.
Gate, guardhouse, cameras tucked into the stone like eyes. There’s a second fence inside the first and a drive that curves for no good reason. Maybe for suspense? I press my palms flat on my thighs and tell myself to breathe. Kitchens, I understand. Fortresses, less so.
“Chef?” the driver says, like he’s not sure if I’m that yet.
“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds like it belongs to someone who slept. I didn’t. “Back entrance.”
He nods. He already knew. This is the kind of place where people already know.
We roll past tidy hedges trimmed within an inch of their life.
There’s a separate lane that looks like deliveries, screened by trees so you don’t have to see them happen.
The side door is big enough to drive a small car through.
Two men in dark suits stand there like statues with earpieces.
One taps a tablet, checks a list, looks at my face and then at the knives in my bag.
“Bianca Marcelli,” I say before he asks.
He nods, and a woman appears behind him.
She has a tablet in hand. Neat ponytail. Navy sweater, black pants, flats that say she walks all day. She looks me up and down fast—chef coat folded over my arm, tote on my shoulder, cooler in my hand—and steps back to let me through.
“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Vivian. House manager.”
“Bianca,” I say. “Marcelli.”
“Welcome.” She steps back so I can pass. “Kitchen’s this way.”
I shoulder my bag. The door opens on a corridor that’s too bright and too quiet. Floors that look like they never get dirty.
I catch a glimpse of a huge family room off to the left that looks like a magazine—low couches, big windows, a view of the water—and then we’re in the service hall. The air changes as soon as we hit the kitchen threshold. Cooler and warmer at the same time.
It smells like stainless and electricity and espresso from the giant machine taking up one massive section of counter.
It's a showy kitchen, but also a cook’s kitchen. Beautiful and practical.
Two long islands with heavy tops and drawers that close with a whisper. Six-burner on one side, a second on the other. Two wall ovens, glass so clean it might not exist. A salamander broiler tucked under a steel shelf. A walk-in behind opaque glass. It’s new but not fussy.
“You’ll have this room,” Vivian says, sweeping a look around that covers refrigerator to mop sink. “And the butler’s pantry. Two helpers who know their way around a kitchen. One dishwasher, and two runners.”
“Any house rules?” I ask. I like to know how much rope I’ve got before I start pulling it tight.
“No smoking,” she says dry. “No phones while working unless there’s an emergency. If you need something, ask me. We don’t shout. We don’t cut corners. We don’t let contractors wander. You’ll find staff here follow directions if they are clear.”
Clear I can do. “All right.”
“Deliveries arrived twenty minutes ago,” she says. “Cold went into the walk-in. Dry is staged there.” She nods to a clean rack, boxes stacked, labels facing out. If she wasn’t a house manager, she could run a garde-manger station.
She steps to the walk-in and opens it. Cold air rolls out. The shelves are neat. The top shelf holds a perforated pan over ice. I can see antennae twitch.
“Your langoustines,” Vivian says, matter-of-fact. “Driver signed for them at 6:00. Still lively.”
“Good,” I say. My chest loosens a notch. “Dry storage?”
She closes the door and steps to a double-door off to the side.
“Pantry is here.” She points to a wall of cabinets.
“Upper left. Flour, sugar. Oils here. Vinegars there. Two refrigerators besides the walk-in—beverages in the tall one, dairy and eggs in the other. Smallwares in those drawers, knives in this block, but you probably brought your own.”
“I did.” I set my tote and cooler on the island. “Is the staff in?”
“Not yet. Mr. Conti—Giovanni—said you requested some space for prep, so they’ll be arriving at noon.
I’ll introduce you when they’re in.” She taps her tablet.
“There are still additional deliveries to come. Produce is 9:15. Cheese at 1:00. I’ll sign if you’re gone by then. I don’t have anything for wine.”
“I picked the wine myself,” I say, patting the cooler. “I’m picky about my pairings.”
“If you provide the receipts, you will be reimbursed,” Vivian continues, all business.
“I still have some more purchases, so I’ll gather them all at once,” I say, while taking everything in. “Is there anything that’s off-limits?”
“The baby’s milk and an old recipe box in the pantry,” she says. “That’s Elena’s. If you touch it, you may not be forgiven. You’ve been warned.”
Her words instantly make me nervous. What does that mean? Is that a threat of some sort?
I try to say something casual and end up with: “Oh, does she cook?” But it comes out a bit too pitchy.
Vivian gives me a look that has laughter in it. “She tries. She is very proud of her cacio e pepe that is mostly mine.”
A soft voice comes from the doorway. “That is slander.”
We turn. Elena Pennino stands there with a baby at her shoulder and hair in a knot that’s given up. No makeup. Soft T-shirt. Joggers. She looks like a new mother who has slept only two hours at a time for the last three weeks.
It’s hard to imagine the woman as the renowned federal prosecutor, a shark in the courtroom who once stood opposite Luca Conti but is now engaged to him.
“Hi,” she says to me. “Bianca.” She shifts the baby higher. The tiny one makes a sound like a bird. “I’m Elena.”
We shake hands around baby cheeks and burp cloths.
“Thank you for being here,” she says. “I hope the kitchen works for you.”
“It does,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” she says, looking around like it’s still new to her. “I get lost in the drawers often.”
Vivian side-eyes her. “Because you reorganize them every week.”
“I like systems,” Elena says. “It calms me.”
“Me too,” I say.
She brightens. “Then we’ll get along. The menu—we’ll stay out of your way. I know you know what you’re doing. If there’s anything you need from me, tell Vivian and she’ll let me know.”
“Noted,” I say.
She touches the baby’s back. “This is Alessandra. She doesn’t care about menus. She cares about her thumb and screaming at three a.m.”
I smile because I can’t not. The baby smells like milk, and that undefinable smell that is “newborn baby.”
“She’s adorable,” I say because what else do you say about people’s babies? Coming from such a huge family, I’m pretty familiar with babies, but Luca Conti’s fiancee? What the hell do I say to her?
So, I circle back to business.
“I’ll do a full walk and let you know if I need anything else as soon as possible,” I say.
“Vivian will give you the tour. I’ll stand here and look useful,” Elena says, rocking gently. The baby is asleep with her mouth open, a pink fist under her chin.
Vivian moves. I follow. We check the pantry, the fridges, the freezers. I check the ovens to see how they feel, how they work.
Everything runs perfectly. It’s obvious someone loves this kitchen.
“Everything seems to be good for now. I have some prep to do for tonight, so I’ll just get started on that,” I say.
Elena shifts the baby to the other shoulder. The baby grumbles, then settles.
“Seems like you know what you’re doing, and I should stop pretending I can help,” Elena says. “But I’m going to say this anyway. Thank you for doing this. Luca keeps saying he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this. We’re trying to keep it small.”
“I have a headcount of ten adults and two kids,” I say.
“That’s right,” Elena says. “Me, Luca, Giovanni…”
My heart jolts at his name.
“Roberto, Antonio, Caterina, Nico, Vito, and Lucia, her husband, and two daughters,” she says, rocking back and forth. She blows out a breath. “I don’t want to add any pressure to you, but it’s a bit of a big night for us. Somewhat of a family reunion.”
“I see,” I say, but I really don’t.
“It was great of Giovanni to hire you for this. Luca has a chef for the house, and she’s great, but he wanted something different for tonight, you know?”
I don’t, but again: “Of course, I understand.”
“And we all know I can’t cook worth a damn,” Elena says with a grin. “I can recite case law in my sleep, but I can’t poach an egg without an adult in the room.”
We all snort. The tension in my neck drops another notch. I didn’t expect that.
But it comes right back full force when a tall man steps into the kitchen.
A man who looks like he’s been walking into rooms and taking charge of them his whole life. Dark jeans. Dark sweater. Dark hair swept back away from a handsome face with strong features. He takes it in fast—me, the island, the labeled cambros, the cooler, the baby. He doesn’t say a word.
I know who he is before Elena says anything. The jaw. The eyes. The temperature change.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He looks at Elena. Everything in him softens a degree that would be funny if it weren’t so human.
“Panini, you burned water once,” he says fondly.
“The pot had it out for me,” Elena says, dead serious.
Luca’s gaze finally cuts to me. I straighten without meaning to.
“This is Bianca,” Elena says, tipping her chin my way. “She’s feeding us tonight.”
“Bianca,” he repeats, voice even. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me,” I say. My tongue wants to stick to the roof of my mouth. I keep my hands visible on the island so I don’t clench them.
He steps closer, not looming, just... present. “Vivian treating you right?”
“She is,” I say. “Everything’s in order.”
“Got everything you need for tonight?”
“I believe so.”
He glances at the walk-in.
“The langoustines Giovanni promised are in?”
“Yes.”
“You happy with them?”
“They’re lively,” I say.
He nods once like that’s the only answer he wanted. “Good.” His eyes come back to mine. “Tonight is for family. No theatre.”
“I can do that.”
A beat. He studies me, and I fight the urge to shuffle under his gaze. “You should know that in this house, we eat and mind our business.” Not a threat. A boundary.
I think.
“Understood.”
Elena steps up and puts a hand on his arm gently.
He turns back to her, and his entire demeanor softens.
He reaches up and adjusts the baby’s cap with surprising gentleness, then takes her in his arms. “Welcome, Bianca,” he says, and then he’s gone as quietly as he came.
Only when he’s out of the doorway do I exhale. My shoulders have crept up toward my ears. I drop them.
Elena gives me a sympathetic look. “He’s… Luca.”
“I gathered.”
“You did great,” she says. “I’m going to vanish and try to pretend I’ll nap.” To Vivian: “Text me if she needs anything.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vivian says.
Elena flashes me a quick smile and pads out.
I turn back to the island, grateful for something that makes sense. “Okay,” I say to Vivian, mostly to myself. “Let’s work.”