Chapter Seventeen
Bianca
Giovanni’s car shows up five minutes early. Black sedan, nothing flashy. The driver puts my bag in the trunk and opens the door. We leave the city before it’s woken up.
All week I’ve been in his kitchen. Breakfast, lunch, dinner when he was home, prep labeled when he wasn’t. We spoke every day, but only in the language of food: temps, timing, “more lemon,” “salt’s right,” “hold that ten.”
Nothing about the kiss. Nothing about Italy until a text yesterday afternoon with the details: pickup time, tail number, passport, light luggage, private terminal. No flourish. No winking smile. Just information.
We pass the main entrances to the airport—curbside drop-offs with their rolling suitcases and harried goodbyes—and turn where the signs say Authorized Vehicles Only.
The driver shows a pass to a guard. The gate lifts.
We keep going. The normal soundtrack of airports fades as we drive along the service road.
Planes sit along the tarmac like sleeping birds.
A smaller one waits ahead with a set of stairs at its door and a man at the bottom.
My stomach does an unhelpful little leap.
He’s here already. Of course he is. Dark coat against the pale of the fuselage, hands in his pockets like he has all the patience in the world. He’s looking at the plane, not the car. Ground crew move around him without getting in his space. He wears money and control like it’s nothing.
My mother’s voice trills in my ear. “You’re going on a private plane with that man? You’re going with him to Italy for a week?”
Shock, outrage, fear. I told her I’m going to talk to Chef Sorrentino and pack up my apartment.
“You tell that chef you’ll be back within six months, you hear me?”
I can still see her braced against the sink, one hand in the air like a conductor, worry coloring her features. “And you text me when you land. And when you take off. And if anyone looks at you funny on that airplane—”
“Mama,” I said, laughing even though my stomach was tight. “I’m going for my knives and my clothes. I’ll talk to Chef. I’ll be back in a week.”
“A week,” she repeated, suspicious. “With that man.”
“With my boss,” I corrected. “Who is letting me have the time to do this and also taking me there for free.”
“Nothing is free, Bianca,” she said desperately. “When will you learn this?”
“I know, Mama,” I say. “I know that. That’s not what I mean. I mean, without the expensive last-minute ticket. That’s all. I’m not na?ve.”
“I know, Bibi.” She’d gone quiet for a beat, then softer: “Wear a sweater. Planes are cold.”
Now, the sedan rolls to a stop beside the nose of the plane. The driver is already at my door. Jet fuel and cold air sweep in when the door opens.
I step out and smooth my coat like it will smooth my nerves.
The plane is sleek and compact, the perfect white that only ever exists on vehicles that don’t spend time in grocery store parking lots. The stairs gleam. The cabin door is open, light spilling warm onto the tarmac.
Giovanni turns at the sound. No smile. Just a quick assessment grips my lungs like a hand. Dark coat, scarf loose, hair pushed back by the wind. He doesn’t move toward me until I’m clear of the car.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” My breath ghosts in the air. I tuck my fingers into my pockets so I don’t do something stupid like reach for him. “Is this…” I glance at the plane like an idiot who’s never seen one before. “Yours?”
“Yes,” he says. He tips his chin to the stairs. “We can go straight up. They’ll shut the door after us.”
“Right.” I pull my passport from my pocket and show it to no one because there’s no one to show it to. I put it back.
At the stairs, he steps aside for me to pass. He offers a hand, and I reluctantly take it.
Inside, the cabin is warm leather and quiet. Two cream chairs face two more with a small table between; a sofa runs along the far wall. A flight attendant with a neat bun and a name tag that says S. Alvarez smiles like it’s not 6:00 in the morning.
“Good morning, Mr. Conti. Ms. Marcelli.” She gestures to the forward seats. “Coffee?”
“Please,” I say.
“Two,” he echoes.
I slide into the seat by the window and buckle in. He takes the seat across from me, drops his coat over the back, and rests one hand on the armrest.
Through the oval window, a small truck pulls away from the wing. A guy on the ground gives a thumbs-up. Engines spool, a deeper sound. The plane shifts under my feet.
The attendant sets down two small cups and a plate with two croissants and a cluster of raspberries. “We’ll taxi in three,” she says. “Call if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He watches me, not intrusive, just observant. “You sleep at all?”
“A little.” I wrap my hands around the cup. The heat goes straight into my fingers. “You?”
“Enough.”
Silence settles, not uncomfortable. The plane nudges into motion, the low roll of wheels humming loudly through the cabin floor. I take a sip. It’s good coffee. Of course it is.
He turns his wrist, checks nothing in particular, then looks back at me. “You brought what you need?”
“Most of my stuff is there,” I say. “In my apartment.”
“Anything you don’t need right away, we’ll have shipped back here,” he says.
“Not my knives,” I murmur.
“Not your knives.” A small lift of his lips. “You can sleep if you want. There are blankets and pillows.”
“I’ll try a little later. Jet lag hits me pretty bad.”
I’ll try, sure. But I know I won’t. I take a croissant instead, tear the end, and the buttered layers flake into my palm. I eat half, set the rest down, wipe my fingers on the linen tucked under the plate.
He tips his chin toward the window. “We’ll be wheels up in a minute.”
I nod and take another sip.
The attendant returns, checks belts, then disappears behind the galley curtain.
Giovanni rests his forearm on the armrest, fingers relaxed. He doesn’t fill the space with talk. He never does. I’m grateful for that. It makes it easier to think and breathe.
The plane turns slowly, straightens. We wait a few minutes, then the engines open up with a muted roar, and the runway starts running quickly beneath us.
Pressure pins me back and lifts me in the same second.
My stomach dips and rights itself. The city slides away, the glass of the terminals catching pale morning light.
The noise of the plane steadies, the ground turns to puzzle pieces of the buildings that make up Atlantic City.
Then we’re buried in the clouds. I let my head go back against the leather and release a long breath.
I’ve never been scared of flying, but flying on such a tiny plane is a very different experience. It feels more fragile.
Giovanni nudges the plate closer to me without words, and I take the other half of the croissant to settle my stomach.
The enclosed space of the cabin makes it hard to do anything but notice him, the way he smells, every shift of his body.
I stuff the croissant in my mouth.
This is going to be a very long week.