Chapter Thirteen
Bianca
The kitchen runs quickly and efficiently, just the way I like it. I keep my back to the dining room door and my eyes on the pass. If I look toward the hallway, I’ll start wondering who is laughing, who is quiet, who is crying in a bathroom. I can’t do that.
I plate.
I’m surprised Giovanni hasn’t come in. He said he’d check, and he hasn’t.
It pokes at me more than it should. Then I remember what one of the sous chefs, Marco, murmured to the other when they thought I wasn’t listening.
I’m always listening in my kitchen. “Oldest daughter’s first night back in ten, twelve years.
” He said it with that mix of awe and gossip kitchens run on.
This isn’t just a dinner; it’s a potential powder keg.
So I work.
Aperitivo is easy and dangerous at the same time—too fussy and it looks like I’m showing off, too basic and it looks like I phoned it in.
On the pass: warm olives with orange peel and rosemary; paper-thin carta di musica with a swipe of whipped ricotta and a line of bottarga; little cones of fried sage leaves, crackling and salty; and tiny cups of chilled and smooth pea and mint soup.
Pairing is a Ligurian vermentino, cold enough to lift everything without numbing it.
For the girls, I send small shot glasses of apple–pear juice to compliment the mini mozzarella skewers and olive oil-rubbed crostini.
“Three trays to the seating room,” I tell the runners. “Keep the soup upright. Do not stack.”
They move. I reset my board.
Antipasti next. I lay down roasted peppers under oil with garlic the color of straw; thin slices of veal tonnato, sauce naped, capers for color; grilled zucchini and eggplant with basil; a neat fan of prosciutto around a ball of burrata, ready to spill open; a small dish of acciughe al verde, parsley bright, garlic sharp.
I tuck in lemon wedges and warm bread ends to pull the plates together. Wine: a Franciacorta brut.
For the girls, mild roasted red pepper strips with a little cup of ricotta for dipping, plus some melon-and-salami rolls and peach nectar cut with a squeeze of lemon, poured over a single ice cube so it chills without turning to water.
“Walk, don’t run,” I say. “If you break the burrata, don’t bother coming back.”
They grin because they think it’s a joke. It isn’t.
I check the langoustines again—lids off, ice holding them in a shallow bed, antennae active, eyes like polished beads. Good. I close them back up. Not yet.
Primi. Two pastas, because it felt right. I send cavatelli with broccoli rabe, garlic, and a little chili. The other is tagliatelle with a slow pork and tomato ragù, not heavy, silked with butter at the end and finished with Parmigiano from a fresh wheel.
I taste both, adjust a half pinch of salt in the ragù, crack pepper over the greens, pasta.
Wines: the cavatelli gets a Greco di Tufo, the ragù gets a Chianti Classico that has a spine and not much oak. For the girls, small bowls of buttered noodles with a sprinkle of cheese and a side of tiny meatballs that taste like Sunday dinner, with little cups of diluted strawberry juice.
“Two pastas to start on the left, then right, then fill,” I tell the servers. “Don’t talk. Let them.”
The pass is empty for a moment. The salamander hisses. Then we’re away again.
Secondi. This is where the langoustines headline.
I set a wide sauté pan on high heat, another on medium.
Oil, garlic crushed and, in a whisper of chili, two halved cherry tomatoes for color and acid, a splash of white wine that jumps and steams. I lift the langoustines out, pat dry, salt, then lay them down.
Sear. Flip. A knob of butter and a squeeze of lemon at the end, chopped parsley like confetti.
Transfer on to warmed platters: three per adult, split down the belly so the meat shows, claws cracked, shells glistening. They smell like sea and butter. Wine is Fiano—almond and smoke, nothing cute.
For the girls: one langoustine each, meat pulled and set back into the shell so they don’t have to fight for it, plus a little cup of lemon butter with a brush of honey, and a slice of soft white bread to clean their plates.
Their drink is cold watermelon juice with a pinch of mint, shaken to wake it up.
“Hands steady,” I say, laying the last sprigs. “Hot plates.”
Beside the langoustines, I send the meat course—thinly sliced veal saltimbocca done right. Not pounded into paper, not drowned.
Sage under the prosciutto so the leaf perfumes the meat, quick pan sauce with Marsala reduced, finished with a knob of butter and a squeeze of lemon to brighten it.
It sits beside roasted potatoes with rosemary and a tumble of sautéed escarole with garlic and anchovies, just enough funk to make the point. Wine shifts to Barbera, bright, acidic, friendly with fat.
For the girls, small slices of roasted chicken, skin crispy, meat juicy—with a spoon of the potatoes and a mound of green beans blanched and tossed with olive oil and salt. Their drink is a little orange–carrot blend that tastes like sunshine and won’t stain if spilled.
“Two hands per plate,” I say. “If you wobble, stop and reset.”
The kitchen moves like a well-oiled machine. Vivian steps in, watches the pass without stepping on it, and reads my board in a glance.
“Everything on time?” she asks.
“So far,” I say, eyes on a plate that needs a wipe. I take the towel from a runner gently and show him the difference between smear and clean. He nods and does it.
I send more bread, warm, sliced thick.
Cool insalata after the warm. I keep it simple—bitter leaves and tender lettuce, shaved fennel, thin coins of radish, a vinaigrette that knows how to stay out of the way.
A few toasted walnuts. A plate for each adult, small bowls for the girls with extra cucumbers and no walnuts. Wine drops down to a crisp Verdicchio.
“Salad is not a negotiation,” I say to the staff when they slow, thinking this course is optional. “It resets the room. Keep moving.”
They move.
The pass clears a little. I lean into the counter and breathe once, then push off.
I’m lining up boards for formaggi e frutta when the door swings open behind me. I feel him immediately. I stiffen but try not to make it obvious.
I feel him walk up next to me and watch. I glance up at him, then back to the plates.
He does and doesn’t belong in the room somehow. Dark sweater, expensive cologne, his hair swept back. His eyes take in everything. About me.
He looks at my hands, the pass, the board on the wall.
“How’s it going?” he asks in that low voice that sends tingles through me.
“On time,” I say, placing a thin slice of taleggio just so. “Formaggi and fruit next. Then dessert.”
He nods once, then adds, “They like you.” A beat. “They like dinner.”
I don’t let myself smile. “Good.”
“Elena said to tell you the langoustine should be illegal,” he says. “Luca asked where I found you.” He lets that linger and moves closer to the pass, scanning plates like he’s the last check. He isn’t. I am. Still, I don’t hate that he looks.
“Tell Elena she can have the recipe,” I say, then wince. “Though I’m not sure it’ll come out the same at her hand.”
That gets the corner of his mouth to move. “No. No, it won’t.” He taps the board once with a knuckle. “You ate?”
“Working,” I say, which is an answer.
“Not the question.”
I don’t look up. “I tasted everything.”
“Tasting isn’t eating,” he says, already moving. He nods at one of the helpers. “Ten minutes.” Then to Vivian, who’s hovering just outside my circle, “They’re moving to the seating room. Fruit and dessert in fifteen. Give everyone the ten.”
Vivian’s already lifting her tablet. “Yes, sir.”
As the room empties, he opens the lowboy, lifts a half pan of tagliatelle I held warm for a just-in-case and plates a small portion. Butter, flick of the pan, a fall of Parmigiano from the heel I left wrapped in a towel. He sets it on the end of the stainless and nudges a stool with his foot.
“Sit,” he says.
“I have—” I start.
“Ten minutes,” he says. “Fruit can wait. Dessert can wait. You can’t.”
I don’t usually eat when I’m cooking, and I resent a bit being treated like a child.
But he is my boss now, and I need this job. I slide the knife into its slot, wipe my hands, and sit. He puts the plate in front of me and a fork in my hand like I’m five.
The steam hits my face with hints of pork, tomato, and butter, and the first bite hits my stomach like mercy. I didn’t know how empty I was until now.
He watches me take three bites without a word and leans one hip on the table like he has all the time in the world.
“Your timing’s good,” he says. “Everyone is enjoying the food, and you made special food for the girls.”
“I didn’t think they’d want bottarga and veal tonnato with Franciacorta,” I say.
“No, they probably wouldn’t.” There goes that tilt of his mouth again. I stuff more food in my mouth to stop myself from thinking too hard about it.
And about the fact that we’re alone in the kitchen now.
I swallow my bite. “How’s it going out there?”
Damn it. Why did I ask that? It’s none of my business.
Didn’t Luca-fucking-Conti tell me as much just today?
I’m going to get myself killed because I can’t keep my big mouth shut.
He answers anyway.
“Quiet,” he says. “Careful. They’re trying.” A beat. “Your food is doing half the talking.”
I nod, fork suspended. “And the other half?”
“Luca’s nerves. Caterina’s mouth when she forgets herself. Vito’s pacing a groove in the rug.” His eyes flick to me. “Elena’s keeping it all together. Nico is Nico.”
He says is like I should know.
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
I take another bite. Butter, tomato, salt. “That’s good.” I suppose.
“You have flour on your cheek,” he says, like he’s pointing out a hazard on the line.
“Where.” I set the fork down, reach up blindly.
He doesn’t touch me. He reaches for a side towel, folds it once, holds it out. “Here.”
I take it, wipe. “Better?”
“Almost.” His mouth twitches. “You’ll live.”
I set the towel aside, push the plate back an inch. “The perils of fresh pasta.”
“Three more,” he says.
I squint at him. “Are you always this controlling?”
“Yes,” he says, not sorry.
I take three more bites out of spite and because I want them.
He watches, not hovering, just there, like a wall of heat at my side. The kitchen isn’t small, but it feels small with him in it.
“I have to start getting dessert ready,” I say.
“Your ten minutes isn’t up,” he says simply.
He doesn’t move. Neither do I. The clock over the door ticks steadily.
Heat crawls up my neck. I stand, slowly, the stool scraping quietly on the tile. We’re close enough that the stainless steel behind him reflects us in the same strip of shine—his shoulder, my cheek, the space between.
“You said fruit in fifteen,” I remind him, uselessly, breathlessly.
“Four left,” he says, voice lower. “Use them.”
“For what?”
His gaze dips to my mouth, then back. “Whatever you want.”
I should step around him. I don’t. He lifts his hand and stops half an inch from my face.
“Still there,” he says softly. “Flour.”
I don’t feel anything. “Where.”
He doesn’t reach for a towel this time. He closes that half inch and skims his thumb across my cheekbone, slow. It’s nothing. It’s everything. He doesn’t press, just traces, then rests there.
“Gone,” he says.
I breathe out. It shudders. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I’m exactly where I should be,” he says simply.
My hands are on the edge of the table, knuckles white. I make them loosen.
He leans in, not enough to touch anywhere else, enough that I can feel his breath at my temple. “Say no and I’ll walk out right now.”
I turn my head a fraction. We’re sharing the same breath of air. His eyes are on mine, not a dare. A request.
“Don’t play with me,” I say, quiet.
“I don’t,” he says. “Not about this.”
The last of my excuses burn off like alcohol in a pan. I tip my chin up. It’s small. It’s yes.
He doesn’t pounce. He closes the distance like he’d close a deal: in control and sure.
His mouth brushes mine once, a test. I meet him, firmer, and the line snaps tight between us. His hand stays at my cheek, the other on the counter, like he’s keeping promises even now. I fist my fingers in the towel at my side because if I touch him, I won’t stop.
Heat flashes low in my belly, remembering the dream I had. Giovanni hiking me up on the counter, plunging into me over and over. His hands everywhere at once. His mouth…
He pulls back first, an inch, breathing like he ran up stairs. His thumb drags across my cheek once more, slower. “Okay,” he says, like we just agreed on terms.
I swallow. “Okay.”
The swing door creaks somewhere down the hall; voices skim past and fade. We don’t jump. We just look at each other as he steps back.
“Finish,” he says, stepping away, voice back to business. “Formaggi e frutta now. Ten for dessert. Then we reset.”
“For what,” I ask, and I hate how rough I sound.
“For Monday,” he says. “Nine a.m., my place. Breakfast.”
Uncertainty jumps into my stomach, making me feel sick.
“This isn’t… I’m not…” I shake my head and step back. “This isn’t what we agreed on. I’m not sleeping with you for money.”
Anger flashes hot in his eyes and sends me back another step, halts the breath in my lungs.
His mouth goes hard. “I didn’t offer you money for your body,” he says, low and sharp. “I hired you to cook. I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you. Those are not the same thing.”
My pulse is in my throat. “Power is power,” I say. “You’re the one who signs checks. Or… whatever.”
“I’m also the one who said ‘say no and I’ll walk out,’” he fires back. “You think I don’t know the line? You think I’m interested in blowing up my own house or your life for a cheap trade? No.”
He takes a breath like he’s swallowing the rest of it—his words, his anger. When he speaks again, his voice is controlled. “You keep the job whether you ever touch me again or never. You want this to be only work? It will be only work. You want me out of the kitchen, I stay out.”
My hands are tight on the edge of the table again. I make them open. Shame and relief fight it out in my chest. “I… don’t want to be stupid,” I say. “Or used.” It comes out smaller than I like.
“You’re not stupid,” he says. “And I don’t use people.” His jaw ticks once.
We stare at each other. The clock ticks.
Voices get louder on the other side of the door again.
He breaks eye contact with me. “Fruit in five. Have a menu for me by Friday evening.”
Then he walks out.