Chapter Fifteen
Bianca
Rolando, the head of house, meets me at the elevator with a polite half–smile and a “Good morning, Chef.”
He’s mid-fifties, pressed shirt, quiet shoes, a way of standing that says he sees everything and comments on nothing.
The doors open straight into the penthouse, and I’m met with dark oak floors, matte, not glossy. Big panes of glass from floor to ceiling pulling the skyline right into the room.
Nothing cluttered. Nothing staged. There’s art, but not loud. Black-and-white photos on one wall.
One of family, old Atlantic City, a young man and woman in a simple frame. No trophies. Nothing ostentatious. The couches and chairs are deep and plain, black leather that you’d sink into. A single Persian rug, worn soft.
There’s a humidor the size of a nightstand and, surprisingly, a piano in the corner. Shelves with books that have been opened, probably read, not just for display. It smells like cedar, clean linen, coffee. Money everywhere, but nothing begging you to look.
Ronaldo leads me down the hall and into the kitchen.
I stop dead at the entrance.
It’s a cook’s dream, not a showroom. Six-burner gas range with heavy grates, center French top, plus an induction set into the counter for finesses.
Double wall ovens with clean glass and calibrated temps taped small on the inside edge.
A thick walnut island runs the length of the room with two refrigerated drawers on the working side and knee space on the other so you can sit and prep for hours.
Overhead: a rail with carbon-steel pans seasoned to black, lids matched to size.
I walk through, familiarizing myself with anything and everything, my roll of knives forgotten on the counter.
Knives live in a shallow drawer on felt, blades sheathed, each slot labeled in tidy print.
Another drawer is a spice library—fresh, dated, ground small-batch, whole seeds in the back—alphabetized, because of course it is.
There’s a proofing drawer, a built-in burr grinder next to a La Marzocco that runs like a well-kept car, and a filtered water tap that throws cold and hot on demand.
A small chamber vacuum sealer sits beside a circulator. The fridge is tall and paneled to match the cabinets; the walk-in equivalent is a glass-front column tucked in the butler’s pantry: labeled cambros, nothing a mystery.
It’s better than Luca’s. Newer, more deliberate. Whoever designed it talked to a chef and listened.
And then the charm: a line of living herbs in a trough under the window—basil, thyme, flat parsley, chives—grow light on a timer; a ceramic crock of wooden spoons worn smooth; an old-timey radio on the shelf with something classical floating out of the speakers.
The window over the secondary sink looks straight out to water and early light.
“I thought you’d approve,” Rolando says, maybe a hint of pride coloring his voice. “Pantry’s through here.”
He takes me through and shows me everything. Then steps out with a small nod and leaves me to it.
The kitchen is mine.
I set my knife roll on the island, unbuckle, and lay steel and edge in a row. Chef’s, petty, boning, offset, fish spatula, tweezers, favorite spoon. I like the feel of them on this counter. They look like they belong.
It’s not my main set, just the one I kept at Nonna’s. My main set is back in Italy, and I’m itching to have it.
Before starting, I step over to the gorgeous espresso machine. The La Marzocco sits beautiful and shiny under the morning sun, enticing me with its gleam.
I grind fresh and knock the portafilter level. The machine buzzes low when I lock it in. First pull goes to the sink—season the group head, wake the steel—second pull is mine. Crema right, tiger striping, thirty seconds. I sip. Bitter, at first, then round. Delicious.
I set the cup near the window and get to work.
Friday’s menu is open in my head. He said he’d get everything. I verify because that’s my nature. I flip open my notebook and look at the breakfast plan I sent on Friday.
Fridge first. Eggs dated two days ago. Ricotta sweet and loose. Whole-milk yogurt, plain. European butter. Pancetta, not sliced—good. Tomatoes on the counter, warm, not murdered in the cold. Lemons thin-skinned. Herbs alive. Bread crinkles lightly when I press the crust.
Dry pantry: honey (wildflower and chestnut), good olive oils, a variety of vinegars. Salt bins labeled by grain.
I pull what I need to make the fruit plate; yogurt with honey and toasted nuts, soft scramble with chives, pancetta and roasted tomatoes, sourdough toast, ricotta with olive oil and crackled pepper, optional smoked salmon with lemon and capers, and a small frittata if he’d like.
I wipe the counter, even though it’s spotless, and get to work.
By 9:00, I have a plate ready under a warmer. Butter melts in a low pan. Eggs go in, and I slowly stir. I can hear footsteps outside the kitchen, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Then his voice, not loud. “Rolando.”
“Kitchen, sir,” Rolando answers.
Giovanni steps into the doorway. Dark suit, no tie, shirt open at the throat. He takes in the room the way he always does.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I keep the eggs moving, small curds, glossy. “You want salmon or a frittata?”
“Not today.” He steps to the sink, washes his hands, dries them, and stays out of the way. “Smells good.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Pancetta hits its window. I pull it to a rack. Tomatoes come out—skins just split, edges puckered. Bread drops into the toaster; I’m not committing it to a pan today. Eggs off heat with a knob of butter and the chives.
I plate fast and neat. Eggs center-left, chives bright.
Tomatoes right, a squeeze of lemon while they’re still hot.
Pancetta next to the toast so the fat can kiss the crust. Ricotta in a small bowl with oil shimmering on top.
Fruit plate, yogurt with honey and walnuts set behind.
Napkin, fork, spoon for yogurt, coffee cup turned up.
“Dining table or here?” I ask.
He looks at the island, then at the windows. “Table.” He reaches for the fruit and yogurt to carry. I pick up the plates.
We walk out together. The main room is bright but quiet. He sets down his pieces; I set the plates.
“Coffee, espresso?” I ask.
“Can you make a long black?”
“Yes.”
I turn back to the La Marzocco. Double shot first, hot water after. I bring it to the table, set it on a coaster, and slide the small sugar bowl within reach, even though he probably won’t touch it.
He tastes the eggs first. A small nod. Then the tomato, a soft noise of approval that slides into my belly. He tears a piece of toast, drags it through the ricotta and oil.
“Perfect,” he says.
I step back into the kitchen while he eats and begin tidying up. I was told I wouldn’t have to clean, but that doesn’t mean I have to leave it a mess. Afterward, I sit at the counter and pull the notebook to me, already planning the remaining meals for the day.
I’m deep in planning mode when his voice makes me jump and nearly unbalance. “Oh my—”
His hands come around my waist to steady me.
“Are you incapable of making noise?” I say, heart still pounding a mile a minute.
He doesn’t let go right away. “Didn’t mean to,” he says near my ear, voice low. Heat pools where his fingers brace my hips. He steps back a breath later, palms sliding off like he’s reminding himself how to behave. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my pulse disagrees. I flip the notebook open again because paper is safer than looking at him. “Lunch will be simple. Cold roast chicken salad with tarragon, celery, lemon; farro with herbs; shaved fennel; a little fruit.”
“I have a meeting at 1:00,” he says. “Light is good. All set for dinner?”
I flip the page again. “Sea bass. Salsa verde. Braised fennel. Maybe a small saffron risotto to start, not heavy. Greens with lemon. I believe everything is here.”
He nods once, approving.
“Have you eaten?”
“I had coffee,” I say.
He lifts a brow and says nothing.
“I’ll eat after I finish planning,” I add.
“See that you do. There’s a key fob for deliveries. Rolando will give it to you. Keep it. Use the service elevator.”
“Understood.”
Silence that isn’t uncomfortable slides over us for a beat. He taps the rim of his cup once, a habit. I realize I’m holding my breath and let it go.
“This kitchen work for you?” he asks finally.
“It does,” I say. “It’s wonderful.”
“Good,” he says and leaves it at that.
His eyes drop to my knife roll on the counter.
“The famous knives,” he says, and steps over to look for a second.
“The very ones,” I say, sliding off the stool. “Every self-respecting chef has their own set of knives.”
“I can get you the best knives in the world here,” he says, leveling me with a look.
“Ah, but they wouldn’t be mine, would they?” I set my hand on the roll. “These are.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
He takes a step back and turns away.
Something occurs to me, something I have to ask. Something I have no idea how to ask, but was just presented with the perfect moment to do so.
“Actually.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
He stops and turns back to me, a small tilt to his head.
“My knives,” I say, tapping the roll. “These are backups that I keep here.”
His eyes flick to mine. “Backups.”
“My main set is in Italy.” I wet my lips. “I didn’t bring them when I came because I wasn’t supposed to be staying. I was only coming back for the funeral.”
“I’ll have someone send for them,” he says, already turning toward the hall like it’s solved.
“Well—no.” I step around the island. “It isn’t just the knives.
I have a few things I need to settle there.
I wasn’t planning on being gone for months.
My apartment, some paperwork. And I need to speak to Chef Sorrentino in person.
” I force myself not to rush the words. “He deserves to hear it from me.”
He studies me. “You want time.”
“I know I just started.” I hold his gaze. “But yes.”
“How long.”
“A week?” I say, and make it sound like a question even though I’ve already done the math—flights, two days to sort the apartment, a day at the restaurant, packing, shipping, flight back. “Four, five days if I move fast. A week is safer.”
He doesn’t blink. “When.”
“If… if it works for you, I could leave this weekend. I can prep meals to cover you through—”
“Friday,” he says. Not a question.
I blink. “Friday works if I can find a flight on short notice.”
“No need. We’ll take my plane,” he says. He checks his watch. “If that’s all.”
He turns and starts for the doorway.
My brain catches up just as he’s turning the corner.
“Wait. We?” I call out.
But he doesn’t turn back.
Then he’s gone, the soft sound of his steps disappearing out the door, and I’m left in the perfect kitchen with my backup knives and notebook, holding a pen loosely between my fingers.
We?