Chapter 24
Jiya
The knife is the first thing I notice.
German steel, decent balance, machine-sharpened edge. It would do the job. Not my first choice, of course, but it would sever tissue without much trouble. A clean, quiet cut.
“Nervous?” Calloway’s voice cuts through my assessment, low and amused.
I turn to find him watching me with those pale eyes, sleeves already rolled up to expose muscular forearms. Artist’s hands. Killer’s hands. The kind of hands that know how much pressure to apply, when to be gentle, when to be ruthless.
“Just admiring the...equipment,” I manage, my voice catching.
His mouth curves into a knowing smile. “It’s adequate. I prefer my own tools.”
There’s something surreal about standing in this brightly lit classroom full of cheerful couples, discussing cutlery with a man who arranges corpses like art installations. Pretending we’re normal. A couple on a date.
A date.
And this was my idea. This whole insane charade. When I suggested this cooking class, part of me wanted to see what we'd be like together in a normal setting. What it would feel like to pretend we're just two people who met and liked each other, instead of two killers bonding over body disposal.
I glance at him, at the way the light catches the sharp line of his jaw, and the stupid, traitorous part of my brain thinks, This could work.
Which is, without a doubt, the most terrifying thought I’ve had all week. And I spent yesterday dissolving a man in a bin.
Thorne said there would be an initiation, but he didn't say when, and I'm not going to sit around waiting for his mysterious tests.
So, naturally, the only sane response to this unprecedented level of emotional panic is to learn how to make pasta from a man named Marco. Perfectly logical.
Chef Marco, a man whose mustache is as cheerful as his personality, claps his flour-dusted hands together. “Welcome to Cucina Amore’s Couples Cooking! Tonight, we make zee perfect pasta primavera!”
Calloway shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he reaches for an apron. The simple contact sends heat racing through my veins.
Chef Marco lifts an onion and a chef’s knife. “First, we learn proper knife technique. Zee foundation of all cooking!”
Calloway leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “His technique is all wrong. He’d never get a clean cut with that angle.”
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “Too much hesitation. You have to commit.”
“Exactly. Half-measures leave...messy results.”
I study the other couples. A blonde with an engagement ring the size of a pigeon’s egg lets out a performative squeal.
“Babe, look at these cute little tomatoes.” She turns to her fiancé, with a perfect haircut and whiter-than-white teeth.
“Brad, we need to add these cute pasta bowls to our registry.”
Brad nods. “Whatever you want, Jen.”
At the station beside us, an older couple measures ingredients with the precision of nuclear scientists handling uranium.
“Susan, that’s too much salt. The recipe says a teaspoon.”
Susan sighs. “Robert, I’m not blind. This is a teaspoon.”
“That’s a tablespoon. Do you want us to die of sodium overload?”
“After twenty years with you, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
I suppress a smile. At least they’re honest about wanting to kill each other.
Chef Marco arrives at our station, and I watch Calloway take the knife. He doesn’t just pick it up. He balances it on his palm, tests the edge with a light brush of his thumb. It’s the gesture of a man familiar with blades.
Chef Marco passes behind us and stops, his eyes widening at Calloway’s work. “Magnifique! You ‘ave zee surgeon’s ‘ands!”
I meet Calloway’s pale eyes over the chef’s shoulder. “You have no idea,” I say.
“Now, mes amis,” Marco announces, placing a large bowl of whole tomatoes before us. “We make zee sauce! With our hands, the greatest tool of all!” He plunges his own into a bowl, crushing the fruit with theatrical passion. “Feel the tomato! Crush zem with love!”
Calloway rolls his sleeves higher, exposing the corded muscles of his forearms. His hands sink into the sea of red.
He closes his fingers around the first tomato, and the skin splits with a soft, wet pop.
Red pulp and juice, like viscera, run between his fingers.
His eyes lose focus, his movements becoming methodical, automatic.
A flicker of something dark and distant crosses his face.
He’s not here anymore. He’s somewhere else, remembering something else.
I step closer, my shoulder pressing against his. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
His head snaps up, eyes refocusing on me. “No, I am not.”
“You are,” I whisper, reaching into the bowl beside him. Our hands brush in the pulpy depths. “Your eyes went glassy. You were a million miles away.”
His breath catches. “Careful.”
“Or what?”
Calloway leans closer, his lips almost touching my ear. “Or I might show you what I was thinking about.”
I turn my face toward him, our noses almost touching. “Maybe that’s what I want.”
“You have a little...” He reaches up, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. His touch lingers longer than necessary, eyes locked on mine.
Fuck. Why is this so hot?
I dip a single finger into the bowl and draw a slow, deliberate line of red across the vein-laced skin of his inner wrist. A bloody trail.
“What are you doing?” His question comes out strained, vulnerable in a way I’ve never heard from him before.
I don’t answer. Instead, I maintain eye contact as I bring his wrist to my lips, extend my tongue and lick the sweet-tangy sauce from his skin, tracing the path I’d drawn with my finger.
His pupils expand. His pulse beats beneath my tongue.
“Jesus,” he breathes. It’s barely audible, more exhalation than word.
I release his wrist, letting my fingertips trail across his palm.
“Okay!” Chef Marco’s voice slices through the tension like a cleaver. “Now, everyone, bring-a your beautiful sauce to zee pasta station.”
At the pasta station, a fine white dust coats every surface. Chef Marco demonstrates how to form a volcano of flour, cracking two eggs into the crater. “Now, with zee fingertips! Gentle, gentle! We invite the flour to join the egg. We do not force it.”
I press my fingers into the slippery mixture, trying to follow instructions while hyperaware of Calloway standing so close.
“You’re supposed to get your hands dirty,” I murmur, not looking at him.
Calloway narrows his eyes at the challenge, plunging his hands into the mixture. The dough sticks to his fingers as he attempts to fold in the flour.
“Like this?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head, a small smile playing on my lips. “You’re being too rough. It’s not a throat you’re trying to crush.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ve never crushed a throat.”
“No?”
“Lacks finesse,” he responds, and his touch on the dough becomes gentle. “There’s no elegance in it.”
Chef Marco examines our creation with an approving nod. “Magnifique! You work together like you’ve been cooking partners for years.”
I catch Calloway’s eye as we plate our pasta primavera. “Partners,” I repeat, testing the word.
“In crime,” he adds.
The words hit me with an unexpected jolt.
They’re the literal truth, the most accurate label for what we are.
But for the first time, the label feels cheap, insufficient.
It doesn’t account for the look in his eyes when I licked the sauce from his wrist, or the strange, protective heat that bloomed in my chest when the chef praised his hands.
It doesn’t account for the terrifying thought that what I feel for him has nothing to do with crime at all.
Shaken, I grab a plain white plate, ready to heap the pasta on and call it a day. But Calloway’s hand closes over mine, stopping me.
“Let me,” he says.
He takes the plate and produces a long, slender pair of tweezers from his inner jacket pocket as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.
He begins to plate, and he’s not just serving food; he’s composing.
The pasta is coiled into a perfect, rising spiral.
Each sliver of red pepper and yellow squash is placed with the care of a surgeon.
Even Chef Marco falls silent, watching. Madison, the hyena-laugher, drifts over. “Wow, that looks professionally plated!”
Calloway doesn’t even blink, his focus absolute as he drizzles the sauce. He doesn’t just pour it. He creates a pattern, a delicate, deliberate spatter across the pristine white rim of the plate.
Tyler, Madison’s date, leans in, squinting. “Whoa. Is that…is that supposed to look like blood?”
“It’s a balsamic reduction, Tyler,” I say, my voice smooth and cold. “It’s called ‘artistic plating.’”
Chef Marco approaches, his eyes wide with appreciation. “Such passion! Such drama! You have the soul of an artist, Monsieur.”
A strange heat blooms in my chest. Pride. “He is an artist,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “One of Boston’s finest photographers.”
Chef Marco claps his hands together, breaking the spell. “Everyone, please take your seats. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with your loved ones.”
We move to a small table set for two, the flickering candlelight making the wine glasses gleam. Calloway pulls out my chair before taking his own.
“Is this what normal people do?” he whispers as he slides into his own chair. “Go on dates and make pasta and pretend they don’t think about murder at least six times a day?”
“I think most people think about murder,” I whisper back. “They just don’t follow through.”
Calloway lifts his wineglass. “To impulse control, then.”
“To finding better targets,” I counter, clinking my glass against his.
His knee finds mine under the table as he reaches for his fork. It’s not an accident. It’s a slow, deliberate pressure that sends a current straight up my spine. I take a large, steadying gulp of wine.
“I have to admit,” he says, twirling pasta. “This is better than I expected.”
“You sound surprised.”