Chapter Ten #2
I pass it to her.
Angela bends over the nearest rosebush and examines it before selecting a pink bloom. Her shears close just above a cluster of leaves.
“There. Now it will give me two stems instead of one.”
She drops the rose into the basket.
“People think cutting flowers is cruel,” she says as she clips another. “For a healthy rose, it’s often the kindest thing you can do.”
I watch her work.
She doesn’t select the largest flowers or cut wherever it is convenient. She studies every stem first, checking the leaves, the angle of the new growth, and the shape the plant will take afterward.
Her hands are quick but never careless. She knows which branches need support and which leaves conceal the beginning of disease. When she finds an aphid beneath one bud, she removes it with her gloved thumb before checking the neighboring plants.
The garden isn’t beautiful by accident.
She chooses several pink roses, then a few white ones. Pale lavender and sprigs of eucalyptus fill the spaces between them.
“There.” She lifts the basket. “Now we have an arrangement for dinner.”
Dinner.
As if I’m expected to sit at the table with them.
As if I belong in the count.
Angela settles the basket over her arm.
“I imagine you’d like some lunch.”
I open my mouth to refuse, but my stomach growls loudly enough to answer for me.
She smiles.
“Come on. You can eat while I arrange these.”
I follow her through the house and into the kitchen on the west side.
The room is warmer than the rest of the mansion.
Copper pans hang above a wide island, and something rich with tomatoes and herbs simmers on the stove.
Sunlight enters through the terrace doors, illuminating bowls of produce, bundles of fresh herbs, and a dusting of flour near one end of the counter.
One of Marco’s men is lifting the cover from a tray of sandwiches.
He is tall and rangy, with short dark curls and a narrow, serious face. He looks to be somewhere in his thirties. His dark suit jacket has been draped over a chair, but the shoulder holster remains visible against his white shirt.
“Dario,” Angela chides. “I hope you washed your hands.”
“I did.”
He sounds offended by the accusation.
“Go on, then.”
She turns to me.
“Soup or sandwich?”
I stare at her.
The question is so ordinary that my mind forgets how to answer.
“Both?” she offers gently.
I nod.
“Homemade minestrone and turkey on rye. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
Dario gives me a polite nod before taking his sandwich to a table beside the window. His attention returns to the terrace doors, though I can’t tell whether he is guarding them or simply trying to avoid Angela.
Angela lays a second sandwich on the cutting board and slices it diagonally, turning it into neat triangles.
“You don’t have to do that.”
She smiles.
“I enjoy making food look pretty.”
She adds a handful of potato chips to the plate and turns toward the stove.
“Who looks pretty?” Gio asks from the doorway.
He enters the kitchen like a gust of warm air.
He steals a chip from the plate and leans down to kiss Angela’s cheek.
“You do, you big lug.”
She smacks his arm with a wooden spoon.
He clutches the spot as though she has mortally wounded him.
“We all know I’m the prettier one.”
Dario coughs and pounds one fist against his chest.
Angela never pauses what she’s doing.
No one appears surprised.
It feels practiced and comfortable, like this is what happens in the kitchen every day.
Gio catches me watching.
“Everything okay?”
I nod.
“Yeah.”
Angela places my food on a tray beside a second plate and two rolled napkins.
“Would you like to eat outside?”
Gio smiles.
“Sure. Thanks, Angela.”
She hands him the tray.
He jerks his head toward the western terrace doors.
“Come on.”
I follow him outside.
This terrace is smaller than the one beside the pool. A teak table sits near the kitchen windows, shaded by a pale canvas awning. The late-afternoon sun falls behind the house, leaving the space warm without being bright.
Potted herbs line the low wall. Basil, rosemary, and thyme release their scent whenever the breeze disturbs them.
Gio sets down the tray, unloads the dishes, and pulls out a chair for me.
“Thanks.”
He takes the seat across from mine.
“So,” Gio says, “your first official lunch.”
I smile.
“Congratulations.”
“On what?”
“You’ve successfully survived Angela’s feeding.”
I unwrap my napkin and place it in my lap.
“Is she always like that?”
“No.”
He steals another chip from my plate despite having a pile of his own.
“Sometimes she’s worse.”
I laugh.
The sound escapes before I can contain it.
Gio clutches his chest.
“And I get your first laugh too.”
Heat rises into my cheeks.
“How do you know it’s my first?”
“Because I know my brother.” He picks up half of his sandwich. “And he’s nowhere near as funny as I am.”
I test the soup.
Too hot.
I set down the spoon and turn to my sandwich.
“I appreciate everything you and your brother are doing for me.”
Gio looks up.
“You don’t have to thank us.”
“I understand that, but you don’t have to do any of this.”
He studies me.
“Hasn’t anyone ever done something kind for you without expecting anything in return?”
I tear the crust from my sandwich.
The answer should be easy.
It isn’t.
“Not lately.”
Gio nods as though he expected it.
“Well,” he says, “that’s a shame.”
I try the soup again.
It’s now only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun.
The rich tomato flavor fills my mouth when I finally take a spoonful. Beans, vegetables, and herbs—nothing complicated, but it tastes as though Angela has been making it the same way for years.
“My mother used to say kindness was free.”
I take another bite.
“Is that your motto?”
Gio pushes away his empty bowl.
“I figure the world is already full of people trying to make everyone else miserable.”
He glances toward the house.
Through the kitchen windows, Angela is arranging the roses she cut from the conservatory. Dario reaches for another sandwich, and she swats his hand away without turning around.
“Making people smile is easier,” Gio says.
I look at him.
For the first time since leaving Viktor’s house, I wonder if freedom might be more than unlocked doors.
Maybe it can be this too.
Soup in the sunshine. Someone stealing chips from my plate. A place at the table waiting for dinner.
And the ability to open any door I please.