Chapter 10
I focus on chopping the pancetta, giving my hands something to do besides twist my mother's ring.
"Carbonara is simple but it's easy to mess up," I say, breaking the silence that hangs between us. The kitchen feels too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator and bubbling water not enough to fill the space. I've always needed conversation or music while cooking—silence makes my thoughts too loud.
I feel the knife’s weight in my hand. "We need to grate the Parmesan and beat it into the eggs."
Alessio stands against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze follows each movement of the knife.
"You can do more than boil water, I'm certain of it," I snap.
He stands there like a stubborn dog refusing to take direction. For a moment I think he'll refuse then he pushes off the counter, moving with predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken. He pulls the grater in the third drawer he checks, then picks up the huge block of Parmesan.
"How much?" he asks.
"About a cup, grated fine," I reply, getting back to dicing the pancetta. The knife makes a satisfying thud against the cutting board. "My mother taught me this recipe when I was twelve. She said every Italian should know how to make proper carbonara."
I don't know why I'm sharing this with him. Maybe because cooking always makes me think of her, or maybe because the silence feels too heavy. As is the way he keeps his eyes fixed on the knife. Like he thinks I may lunge at him.
Alessio positions himself at the counter beside me, close enough that our elbows nearly touch.
"You're gripping that cheese too hard," I observe his white-knuckled hold on the block. "You'll make it start to sweat…” I tease, loving how a befuddled twinge passes through the bulge of muscle in his bicep…” and then what will you do with it?"
His eyes bat up to mine and flare with heat. There’s a soft glisten of sweat on his brow and when one of his glossy black curls sticks to his forehead I have the strangest urge to curl it back around my finger.
My provocative retort hangs between us for a beat, then another and the boiling water sends steam floating around us like a miasma.
"Like this?" he breaks the moment brusquely, turning back to the task.
I nod, returning to the pancetta. "Perfect. See? Not so difficult."
Why is disappointment spiraling through my chest?
I toss the pasta into the boiling water, the familiar ritual steadying my hands.
"Your mother taught you well," he comments. "What happened to her?"
My hand freezes mid-motion. I look up at him, studying his face. "You must know what happened to her. I'm sure your file on me is quite thorough."
Alessio's dark eyes hold mine, unwavering. "That's not what I meant," he says. "I know she died when you were sixteen. Cancer. I know the facts. What I don't know is who she was to you."
I turn back to the pasta, adding more salt which is definitely more than necessary.
"She was..." I begin, then stop, searching for words that don't feel inadequate. "She was the only one who saw me. Really saw me."
Alessio remains silent, waiting for more. Something about his stillness makes me continue.
"She used to sneak into my room at night with books my father would never approve of. Philosophy, feminist theory, computer science. She'd say, 'Your mind is your greatest weapon, cara mia . Never let anyone take that from you.'"
The memory makes my heart force its way up into my throat. I focus on sliding pancetta into the hot pan where it sizzles and fills the kitchen with a rich aroma.
"She taught me to cook because she said it was freedom. Even in the smallest kitchen, you can create something that is entirely yours. She protected me from my father's world as much as she could."
I stir the pancetta, watching the edges crisp. "When she got sick, everything changed. My father became more controlling. It was like he'd been waiting for her influence to be gone."
I look up to find Alessio watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with warmth that I tell myself is due to the sizzling pan.
"The day before she died, she gave me this ring." I hold up my right hand, showing the thin gold band. "She made me promise I would never let my father decide for me who I am."
Alessio’s expression has softened slightly, though his posture remains rigid.
"What about your family?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can reconsider. "You know all about mine, but I know nothing about yours."
He stiffens and slams down the grater. For a moment I think he'll ignore the question entirely.
I turn back to stir the pancetta. My brother would behave the same way. Leonardo shuts down completely when asked about himself. It's like pulling teeth to get even the smallest personal detail.
Alessio's dark eyes meet mine and to my surprise, he answers.
"My father was killed when I was fourteen. Territory dispute." His voice is flat, stripped of emotion. "My mother still lives in Naples. I call her on Sundays."
He returns to grating cheese, his movements mechanical. "She wanted me to be a doctor. Not..."
"Not Damiano Feretti's right hand?" I finish for him.
"Yes." His fingers almost gouge the cheese but I keep quiet. "She knows what I do, but we don't talk about it. Better that way."
I watch him work, noting how his shoulders are flexing through the fabric of his shirt, how carefully he's controlling his expression.
"Any siblings?" I press, testing the boundaries.
"No." He bangs the grater down with finality. "That's enough. I don't talk about my family."
But he just did. I realize he's shared more than I expected—perhaps more than he intended. I turn back to the stove, hiding my surprise.
His tone makes it clear the conversation about his family is over, but I can't help wondering about the boy who lost his father at fourteen, whose mother wanted him to heal rather than harm.
I crack the eggs into a bowl, whisking them then reaching for the grated cheese. "Two more minutes for the pasta to finish cooking." I say, confirming that the subject is dropped.
I never talk about my family. Not to anyone. Not even Damiano knows more than the bare facts about my mother.
Yet here I am, telling Antonio Lombardi's daughter about Sunday phone calls and my mother's disappointed dreams. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Melania turns back to the stove, focusing on the pasta. Her profile is soft in the kitchen light.
The scent of pancetta fills the kitchen, making my stomach growl.
"Can you get two dishes ?" She asks.
I retrieve two white plates from the cabinet, setting them on the counter beside her. She tests the pasta, nodding with satisfaction before draining it.
"The trick is to add some of the pasta water to the sauce," she explains, moving with practiced efficiency. "It helps bind it."
I stand back, giving her space as she combines the ingredients in the pan. The eggs transform into a silky coating that clings to the pasta. No recipe, no measurements—just instinct and memory.
She serves the carbonara with a flourish, a small smile playing at her lips. She looks genuinely pleased, almost happy. The expression transforms her face entirely.
"Do you want something to drink?" I ask.
Her eyes flick up to mine. "Just water is fine. I’ve still got a lot of work to do."
I can't help the slight twist of my lips. "We don't actually have a choice. But I had to ask."
A small laugh escapes her—the first I've heard. It's brief, barely there.
"Of course." She shakes her head slightly. "Why would the kidnapper's kitchen have a wine selection?"
"There's whiskey," I offer, surprising myself again. "Macallan 25."
"Water is fine," she repeats.
I fill two glasses from the refrigerator dispenser. We sit across from each other.
She takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly as she tastes it. Her look of pleasure sends hurricane twists through my chest. I force myself to look down, focusing on my own plate.
The pasta is perfect—rich and creamy without being heavy. Nothing like the disaster I'd created for breakfast.
"It's good," I say, the understatement hanging between us.
Melania looks up, her fork paused midway to her mouth. "Good? That's all you have to say?" She arches an eyebrow. "This is perfection on a plate, Alessio."
I shrug, fighting the urge to smile. "OK. It's... very good?"
She rolls her eyes and takes another bite. This time, she closes her eyes and makes a sound—a soft moan of pleasure that travels straight through me, igniting something primal.
Fuck.
I reach for my water glass, draining half of it in one long swallow. My throat suddenly feels like sandpaper.
"Do you always do that?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
"Do what?" She looks genuinely confused.
"Make those lascivious noises. When you eat."
Her cheeks flush pink, the color spreading down her neck. She sets her fork down carefully.
"I... I usually eat alone," she admits, not meeting my eyes. "Since I got back from London. I forget sometimes that someone might hear me." She glances up, embarrassment clear on her face. "I'm sorry."
I shouldn't find her embarrassment endearing. I shouldn't find anything about her endearing.
"No need to apologize," I say, with a husk. "It's actually the best noise I've heard in a while."
Now her eyes snap to mine, widening and sparking. For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels charged and this time I can’t blame the fridge.
She stares at me, lips parted slightly, before dropping her gaze back to her plate. Without another word she returns to her food, but the flush remains on her cheeks.
I will my attention to my own plate once more, but my mind keeps replaying that sound. I've heard women moan before—staged performances designed to stroke my ego. This was different. Unguarded. Real.
And far more dangerous because of it.
I can't look at him. Not after that.
My face burns hot enough to fry the pancetta all over again. The carbonara that tasted so perfect moments ago now sticks in my throat as I try to swallow past the knot forming there.
It's the best noise I've heard in a while.
His voice had dropped to a sensuous rumble that vibrated through my chest and settled low in my belly. The way his eyes had darkened when he said it... that wasn't the look of a captor to his prisoner. That was something else entirely. Something I shouldn't want.
I force another bite of pasta into my mouth, careful to remain silent this time. The food has lost its flavor but I chew mechanically, desperate for any distraction.
What's wrong with me? I'm abducted and held against my will then I'm... what? Blushing because my captor relished the filthy sounds I make while eating?
I risk flicking a glance up. Alessio's gaze remains fixed on his plate but his jaw is tight, a muscle twitching beneath the dark stubble.
His shoulders stretch his black T-shirts, broad enough to fill the widest doorframe. I'd noticed it earlier when he reached for the pepper—how the fabric pulled taut across his back to reveal the outline of muscles honed through violence, not vanity.
Those hands now delicately holding silverware have calluses that I felt when our fingers brushed during the meal prep. Trigger calluses. Fighter's hands.
My gaze is fixed to his face. The stubble along his jaw isn't the crafted type that men sport in fashion magazines. It's several days of growth that darkens his already severe features, making the cut of his cheekbones more pronounced.
His mouth, usually set in a hard line, loosens as he takes another bite. The same mouth just delivered words that made my stomach flip.
When his eyes dart up suddenly, catching me staring, I jerk my gaze back down to my plate. But the lump in my throat prevents swallowing. Heat crawls up my neck as I stab at a piece of pancetta. I can feel him watching my confusion, the weight of his close attention heavy across the table.
"The pasta will get cold," he says.
I nod without looking up, forcing another bite and keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the food.