Seven
Chiara
“This is everything from your apartment,” Victor says as he sets down my suitcase. “I got the box from under the bed.”
Relief floods me. “Thank you.”
The door closes behind Victor with a quiet click.
I stand just inside the guest room and take it in without moving farther.
The bed is king-sized, layered in crisp white linens that look like they’ve never been wrinkled by an actual body.
There’s a sitting area near the windows—two low chairs and a small table positioned toward the view, as if they were arranged for a photograph.
A wide desk stretches along the wall of glass, facing the San Francisco Bay.
The late afternoon light reflects off the water and filters in, soft but steady.
The room is more than twice the size of my apartment and infinitely more deliberate.
My suitcase sits at the end of the bed. Everything I own is here. Victor carried it in like it weighed nothing, as if my life fits neatly into manageable pieces.
The space is beautiful. Expensive without trying too hard. The kind of room people would post online with captions about gratitude and new beginnings.
I run my hand along the back of one of the chairs and glance toward the ceiling.
The quiet presses in.
I grew up in houses like this—marble floors nobody actually walked barefoot on, formal living rooms covered in furniture no one used, security gates that opened before the car fully stopped.
The halls were so long you could hear people coming long before they reached you, which meant there was never much privacy, no matter how quiet the house felt.
Staff moved through the rooms, pretending not to listen while reporting everything back to someone else later.
Even the locked doors were complicated. Some were meant to keep people out. Others were meant to keep you in.
I walk to the windows and look out at the bay. The water is calm, boats cutting across it in clean lines. From up here, everything looks orderly and predictable.
My apartment felt nothing like this. It’s small, warm, a little chaotic. The floors creak, the neighbors argue, the windows are painted shut.
Dammit, Massimo. How did you find me? I know Alyssa didn’t tell you.
I turn back to the room. A mini fridge is tucked into the cabinet near the desk. I open it without thinking—bottled flat and sparkling waters, cut fruit, a small container of hummus, everything arranged neatly. Katie must have stocked it.
I close it and glance at the television opposite the bed, mounted perfectly straight. I pick up the remote and scroll—news, sports, a cooking show, a crime documentary I’ve already seen.
Nothing holds my interest.
I sit on the edge of the bed and test the mattress. Firm. Supportive. When I lie back, the air smells faintly clean, like fresh laundry and lavender. Not lived in. Not layered.
I should be impressed. Instead, I feel like I’m back at my father’s house, where being alone never meant unobserved.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The silence stretches. Ciro is out. Victor is gone. Katie is somewhere downstairs.
There has to be a library somewhere.
I smooth the comforter with my palm, more out of habit than necessity, and head for the door. Staying here feels too much like waiting.
The hallway outside is wide and softly lit, the kind of lighting that never turns harsh no matter the time of day. Dark wood floors shine underfoot, my steps barely making a sound.
I pause at the next door and knock. Nothing.
The handle turns easily. I open the door and find Ciro’s bedroom.
There’s no reason to go in. He didn’t invite me. He didn’t forbid it either.
I step inside and close the door behind me out of habit.
The room is larger than mine, not dramatically, but enough to make the point. The bed faces the windows, curtains half drawn, light filtered across darker bedding—charcoal and navy instead of white.
It feels lived in. Not messy. Just used.
The air carries his cologne and something clean beneath it. Laundry detergent. Soap. Him.
The bedroom is as controlled as the rest of the house. The nightstands are nearly empty except for a watch and a single worn book placed perfectly square to the edge. Cords are hidden. The rug sits centered beneath the bed.
The artwork catches my attention first—a woman in a bustier on one wall, studies of a nude figure on the other. Not vulgar. Intentional. Confident. I look longer than I should before my attention shifts to the book beside the bed.
The Story of O. I pick it up and examine it.
I know enough about it to understand what it says about him—or at least what he doesn’t mind leaving visible. Power. Control. Submission complicated by choice. My gaze flicks toward the bed before I can stop it.
I close the book and put it back exactly where I found it.
The rest of the room follows the same pattern.
Drawers filled with neatly folded clothes arranged with almost clinical precision.
Jackets spaced evenly in the closet. Shoes lined in perfect rows.
Even the bathroom looks untouched, his razor aligned beside the sink, towels folded exactly the same way.
My father’s spaces always looked like this too. Order used as discipline. Control worked into every detail.
I pick up the shampoo bottle in the shower more out of instinct than curiosity. The scent is immediately familiar, the same clean warmth that clings faintly to Ciro when he stands too close. I set it back carefully, label turned forward again.
This room isn’t designed for guests. It’s the place where he drops the mask enough to live inside his own routines, and somehow, that feels more intimate than anything else tonight.
Back in the bedroom, my attention lands on the desk near the window. A laptop sits beside a neat stack of files, everything aligned except for one folder resting slightly out of place.
That’s what draws me closer.
A newspaper clipping rests on top. The image is immediate—a car wrapped around a guardrail, metal folded inward, the shape of impact still visible. The headline below reports a fatal accident and a couple killed on impact.
I don’t touch it at first. I read the names, and the last one holds my attention longer than it should.
Marino.
There’s something unsettling about seeing it preserved this carefully, attached to a death old enough that most people would have packed it away years ago.
But the notes in the margins make it clear this isn’t memory.
Ciro’s studying it. Dates circled. Paragraphs underlined.
Questions pressed hard enough into the paper to leave marks behind.
I slide the clipping back into place and straighten the stack until it looks untouched, even though my pulse feels heavier than it did a minute ago. There are parts of him I still don’t understand, and I’m beginning to suspect those are the parts that matter most.
When I leave the room, I close the door softly behind me and head downstairs. The kitchen glows warm against the dark house, every surface clean and deliberate, right down to the basil I bought earlier now sitting in a glass of water on the counter like it belongs here already.
I move to the refrigerator and open it without asking.
Inside, rows of glass containers are stacked with careful labels, each marked with the name of the dish and reheating instructions written in neat, precise handwriting—chicken soft tacos, three hundred fifty degrees for twelve minutes, and more behind them, portioned and ready.
“Is there something I can make you?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to find Katie near the stove, wiping her hands on a folded towel. She doesn’t look surprised to see me. If anything, there’s a quiet relief in her expression.
“I was just looking,” I say. “You labeled everything.”
She smiles. “It keeps things simple. He works late. I don’t want him thinking about logistics.”
I close the refrigerator gently. “It’s impressive.”
“If you’d rather have something fresh, I can make whatever you’re in the mood for.”
Her tone is easy, unforced, and I realize I haven’t felt watched since I stepped into the kitchen.
“What happens to the food he doesn’t eat?” I ask.
“We donate it. There’s a shelter a few blocks away that takes prepared meals if they’re sealed.”
I nod, letting that settle. “That’s good.”
“He doesn’t like waste.”
Something shifts in me, and I don’t examine it too closely as I step closer to the counter where a tray of raw lamb rests beside a bowl of chopped herbs.
“That’s exactly what my mother would use for the ragu.”
“I can’t wait to watch you make it. Old recipes are usually the best.”
“My mother died when I was nine,” I say, the words coming out more evenly than I expect. “This is one of the recipes she gave me.”
Katie looks up with interest. “What do you serve it with?”
“Penne,” I answer automatically, and then pause. “She made her own tagliatelle. That’s what her mother used.”
“From scratch?”
I nod, and the memory comes with it—flour spread across the counter, eggs cracked into a well, her hands moving with confidence that made it look effortless.
“I love making pasta,” Katie says. “People think it’s complicated, but it isn’t. It just takes time.” She sets a bowl in front of me and adds, almost casually, “If you want, I can make tagliatelle for your ragu.”
I meet her eyes. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
There’s no performance in it, and that matters more than I expect. “I’d like that.”
She studies me for a moment and then turns back to the stove. “Have you eaten?”
“Not really.”
“Sit.”
I take one of the stools at the island while she moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling a container from the fridge and spooning chicken noodle soup into a pot.
The scent rises almost immediately—roasted chicken, carrots, thyme—while she butters two slices of bread and sets them in a pan.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Orange County. Southern California. After a short stint in the Army, I moved up for culinary school.”
“In San Francisco?”
She nods. “I thought I’d work in restaurants—big kitchens—but most of them still prefer men on the line and women on desserts, or they make it clear you have to fight twice as hard to be taken seriously.”
“So you chose something else.”
“I did.” She flips the sandwich with an easy motion. “Personal chef work gives me more control. I cook what I want. I don’t answer to a head chef.”
“And you work for Ciro full-time?”
“I cook for him. I help with some of the housekeeping. It works.”
The soup simmers, and she pours it into a wide bowl before setting it in front of me with the grilled cheese, the bread golden and crisp, the cheese melted cleanly through the center.
“Thank you.”
“Eat.”
I do, and it’s simple and good in a way that doesn’t try to impress, which makes it better than most things that do. We fall into an easy silence while I finish, the kitchen settling around us in a way that feels smaller than it did when I walked in.
Katie rinses the pot as I set my spoon down, the dishwasher humming softly in the background.
“Should we do anything with this lamb tonight?” she asks.
“We can cover it with coarse salt and cracked pepper and let it sit overnight,” I say, already reaching for the garlic. “And we can add garlic, olive oil, and rosemary.”
“Perfect.”
I mix the paste and work it over the meat, pressing it in as the scent rises, familiar enough to tighten something in my throat. When I ask for plastic wrap, she points to a drawer, and I seal the lamb before placing it in the refrigerator.
“Let’s make the tagliatelle tomorrow,” she says.
“Okay.”
I rinse my bowl and set it by the sink and then dry my hands before turning back to her.
“Do you know which club Ciro went to?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
She considers it. “I’m not sure. He didn’t say.”
I nod as if it doesn’t matter.
“He mentioned going out,” she adds.
“We’re not dating,” I say. “Or sleeping together.”
“I didn’t think you were,” she replies, just as evenly. “He just doesn’t usually stay out unless there’s a reason.”
“Ever?”
She shakes her head. “Not since I’ve worked for him.”
“How long has that been?”
“Three years.”
I straighten slightly.
“He’s private,” she continues.
I glance toward the hallway that leads upstairs. “So bringing someone home is new.”
“Yes.” She smiles, not unkindly. “He doesn’t mix his worlds.”
“And I’m what?” I ask.
“I think you’re the first person he’s let into this one.”
I let that sit without answering and then shift away from it. “I’m going to look for a book.”
“The library’s by the front door.”
“Thank you. Dinner was incredible.”
“My pleasure.”
The library is lined with shelves, a mix of bestsellers and classics, and I pull down The Sun Also Rises without thinking. I’ve read it before, but it will hold my attention.
As I head back toward the stairs, Katie’s words stay with me in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. He doesn’t bring women home, at least not in the three years she’s been here, and it shouldn’t matter that tonight he came back to a house where I’m sleeping one room away from him.
It doesn’t.
I keep walking.