Chapter 5
FIVE
Eliza
By mid-afternoon I am bored rigid. Despite an exhaustive search I still haven't found the remote control to work the TV projector. I did, however, come across a paperback thriller in the bottom drawer of the nightstand but the last few pages had been torn out. What sort of psycho does that?
Adriano came in this morning with a ham and tomato sandwich and a bottle of water for me. He didn't bring lunch. I've been trying to work out how long a person can survive without food and water. I'm reckoning it's more than the nine hours since I last ate.
Neglecting to feed me is almost forgivable but I'm close to the point where the lack of coffee is becoming torture. As a fellow Italian, Adriano must know what that's doing to me. Bastard.
He didn't speak to me when he brought the food. Instead he just cast an appraising look over me and left. I wonder what he was thinking. After last night I doubt it's flattering. I can't believe I enjoyed him touching me like that.
No, that's not quite right. Adriano knows his way around a woman's body. What I can't believe is that I let him know I enjoyed it. Even if I could have stifled my moans there was no concealing how wet I got for him.
I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the bed contemplating that humiliation when the whirr of the electronic lock in the door announces his arrival. I get to my feet and stand to face him.
He walks into the room, glances at the empty water bottle and the plate that has nothing but a few crumbs on it.
"Can you cook?" he asks.
"Yes." I learned the basics of Italian cooking from my mother. When I was on the run I expanded my repertoire. Though money was always tight, the one thing I never wanted to skimp on was food.
Adriano nods. "Come."
Being spoken to like a dog isn't thrilling to me but I follow him anyway. We don't take the grand staircase we ascended yesterday. Instead, Adriano takes me in the opposite direction along the stark corridor and down a narrower set of stairs.
We emerge into an enormous kitchen. The cabinets and island are all black. The worktops are a gray stone. Slate or granite? I can't tell. There are two stoves with a total of ten burners. It's not immediately obvious if there's a refrigerator in here. Everything is concealed behind a wall of black.
There's not a single cooking pot or utensil on display but I'm guessing a kitchen with such a large stove has everything you'd need to cook with.
"Not one for clutter, are you?" I remark.
Adriano shrugs. "I like to keep things simple."
"So why didn't you shoot me and dump me in some alley in the Grassmarket?"
He doesn't have an answer for that and I can tell the question perplexes him from the tiny crease that appears at the bridge of his nose.
I look around the kitchen again. Several of these cabinets must contain cooking implements and the door off to the right probably leads to a pantry.
"What should I make?" I ask.
"Puttanesca," he replies without missing a beat.
My jaw tightens. "Right, because you think I'm a whore."
He shrugs indolently. "What else would you call a woman who takes money to date a guy and lead him into a trap? Tell me, Eliza, which of the Hungarians were you fucking while you led Gabriele on?"
"I wasn't fucking anyone, Hungarian or otherwise."
"You expect me to believe your innocent act when you proved what a greedy little slut you are last night. You practically came all over my fingers."
I fold my arms across my chest. "Are you this much of an asshole to everyone?"
"Pretty much," he says wryly. "But something about you seems to bring it out."
"Lucky me."
I don't want to continue this argument because for some reason it's making me hot in a way that isn't entirely due to anger. "Now, where do you keep the food in this place?"
He pauses for a moment as if trying to decide whether to continue provoking me or to let it slide. Thankfully he chooses the latter because I don't know how much longer I can carry on without either bursting into tears or trying to tear his clothes off.
"The refrigerator's there." He nods to a door behind me. "Pantry's over there."
I was right about the pantry being at the side of the kitchen.
"And the pans?"
"Cabinet under there." He points to the island.
I go to check out the refrigerator first. It's well stocked, mainly with dairy products and fresh juice. Then I head to the pantry. There are tomatoes, tinned, not fresh but they're San Marzano so that's okay.
There's dried pasta in every conceivable shape and olive oil that I recognize as one of the most expensive on the market. Only the best for my criminal overlord.
After three years of buying supermarket brands and sale items, the abundance is almost obscene. I’ll bet it never crosses Adriano’s mind how lucky he is to have access to the best of everything. I mentally chastise myself. Why am I getting upset over a tin of tomatoes?
I gather the ingredients along with fresh garlic and some basil before returning to the kitchen where Adriano has made himself comfortable on a high-backed stool at the island.
"Puttanesca's out. There are no anchovies."
"Okay, so make something else."
"I'm doing pasta pomodoro."
He makes a sound of disdain. "That's what you give a child."
"Seems appropriate."
He raises an eyebrow. "You're calling me a child?"
I shrug. "You called me a whore." I set the ingredients down on the countertop. "You can complain or you can eat. It's up to you."
Something shifts in his expression. It's not quite amusement but it isn't an angrier emotion either. I think it might be appreciation. Does he like when I push back against him?
I consider our interactions so far. His eyes do gleam a little darker when I talk back. That's worth remembering, though I'll have to be careful not to cross a line. I suspect Adriano's good humor only stretches so far.
I find a couple of pans. Filling one with water, which I salt generously, I set it on the back burner. Then I place a frying pan on the front burner and set the heat to medium. I add a splash of olive oil and look around for a knife.
"Left drawer in the island," Adriano says.
I retrieve a knife.
"And a chopping board?"
"You can cut straight onto the worktops. They're made for it."
I had suspected as much but I didn't want to assume and cause untold damage to his obviously expensive kitchen.
I turn my back to him and peel four cloves of garlic. I crush them flat with the side of the knife and add a touch of salt before smoothing them into a paste. My mother taught me that when I was young.
I drop the garlic into the oil. The smell instantly transports me to the kitchen in my childhood home where I stood on a wooden stool to cook by my mom’s side. A smile touches my lips.
Suddenly Adriano appears next to me, looking into the pan.
"The heat's too high. You'll burn the garlic."
"No, I won't."
Suspicion forms in my mind. Adriano knew exactly where everything was in this kitchen and now he's worried about the temperature I'm frying the garlic at.
"You can cook." It's not meant to be the accusation it comes out as.
"Never said I couldn't." Adriano grins before sauntering away. "But I've no intention of cooking for you."
"So when you gave me that plate of meat and bread last night?"
"I was down here enjoying cotoletta alla Milanese with an arugula and tomato salad."
That smarts.
"Asshole," I mutter.
I open the tin of tomatoes and pour them into the hot pan. They react with the heat and hiss violently. I break the tomatoes up with a wooden spoon and lower the heat.
When the water comes to the boil, I add the spaghetti.
"That's not enough." Adriano says from behind me.
Grunting in annoyance, I add some more.
"And watch those tomatoes. I smell burning."
He absolutely does not smell burning but I give the sauce a stir anyway to make sure it's not sticking to the bottom of the pan.
When the pasta's ready, I turn off the burner and take the pot to the sink. I set it down and go to find a colander. I try the cabinet next to the one where the pans are.
There are six different colanders in varying sizes which seems completely unnecessary to me. I take one and head back to the sink. Suddenly Adriano is there again.
"Here, let me drain that. It's heavy."
As he tries to take the colander from me, I hold onto it tightly.
"I'm capable of draining some pasta."
"You could scald yourself," he says.
"Do you even care?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he places his hand over mine and strokes my wrist with his thumb, brushing lightly over the pulse point. The contact lasts mere seconds but it's enough to send an uncomfortable prickle through my body. I breathe out sharply and he lets go of me.
While he drains the pasta, I return to the sauce and give it another stir. It has reduced nicely and now has a thick, plummy texture. I check the seasoning and add another pinch of salt. Adriano brings over the drained pasta.
Usually I'd be more careful, but with him standing so close my mind is scrambled. I dump the entire pan of pasta into the sauce and stir it around.
Removing it from the heat, I tear some basil from the stalks and toss it into the pasta. Adriano fetches plates which he places on the counter next to me.
"Forks are in the drawer next to the one where you got the knife," he tells me. "I'll grab us something to drink."
I serve up two generous helpings of pasta, more for him than me since he's twice my size, and find some forks. The something to drink Adriano mentioned turns out to be a bottle of wine. I don't make out the type but I can see a wolf's head logo on the bottle.
"Where will we eat?" I ask.
"Here, at the island."
Great, so sitting side by side. That won’t be at all unvcomfrortale. I place the plates down. Adriano pours two glasses of wine.
"This is from my cousin Lorenzo's vineyard, a Chianti Classico,” he tells me with a hint of pride.
He waits for me to take my seat and then sits next to me. I take a sip of the wine.
"Oh, that's nice,” I say. “Fruity.”
"I'll pass on your invaluable feedback,” Adriano says drily.
I bite my tongue to prevent another insult escaping me. As much as I enjoy the banter this man is not my friend or my lover. He brought me here to punish me in some way and I can't forget that.
I take a larger gulp of wine and set my glass down.
Adriano picks up his fork and I watch as he tries the pasta.
"Adequate," he pronounces.
Again, I don't rise to the bait and let it slide. As pasta al pomodoro goes, this is pretty good.
"Who taught you to cook?" he asks.
"My mom and my grandmother."
That's the entirety of our conversation. We eat in silence, Adriano shoveling the pasta into his mouth in a way that suggests he finds it more than adequate. He hums in between mouthfuls. I’ll bet he doesn’t know he does that.
When both of our plates are cleared, he takes them both to the sink and rinses them off before placing them in the dishwasher. It's an oddly domestic action for a man who's anything but tame.
He turns to look at me.
"Come."
We're back to treating me like a dog, it seems. I follow him back up the stairs we came down, lamenting that I'm not getting to see more of the house. I want to know if it's all this soulless.
I head into the bedroom but he doesn't follow.
"Tomorrow you'll cook again. A proper meal."
"Your wish is my command."
He looks at me for a moment with an expression I can't read.
Then he pulls the door closed and the lock whirs.
I sit on the edge of the bed and think about how close he stood at the stove, the feel of his fingers on my wrist, the strangely companionable silence as we ate.
Adriano Volante is an enigma. I'm excited to unravel the mystery. Whatever the consequences.