Chapter 20
TWENTY
Eliza
Adriano Volante is a complete tyrant. I've spent most of the day in bed because he's concerned that getting up and making myself a coffee or fetching my own bottle of water will impede my recovery. He hasn't even let me go to the bathroom on my own.
No, seriously. He gave me a phone so I could call him to accompany me when I needed to go. It's control freakery at its finest, but I got the last laugh. I sneaked in two toilet breaks without him knowing and shaved my legs just in case he ever decides I'm fit enough to wrap them around him again.
When I wander downstairs following three hours of sleep I didn't intend to take, I find him cooking. The smell hits me before I reach the kitchen.
It's an aromatic mix of garlic, wine and something herby and rich that makes my stomach announce itself in a way that's slightly embarrassing. I stop in the doorway.
Adriano is at the stove with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. He looks around when I come in and quickly scans me from head to foot before returning his attention to the pan.
"Sit down," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Sit down."
When I move to take a seat at the kitchen island, he turns and hisses at me like I'm a cat he's trying to shoo away.
"Not there." He jabs his wooden spoon at the table. "Over there."
"Why?"
"Those stools are too high. You could fall."
"Oh for god's sake. I'm not a child."
"Eliza, over there now, or I'm putting you back to bed."
Okay, given that choice, I'll take the kitchen table but he really is being ridiculous. I'm not the clumsy type. One blow to the face is not going to render me incapable of sitting on a stool without falling off it.
If he could get away with it I suspect he'd swaddle me in bubble wrap. It's infuriating, but also kind of sweet. I don't imagine this man has much experience of taking care of someone. It's why he's overcompensating.
I take a seat at the table and watch him. He moves efficiently the way he does everything, no wasted motion, each thing done in the right order. Domesticity looks surprisingly good on him.
"What are you making?" I ask.
"Ribollita."
I blink. "That takes hours."
"Yes."
"You've been in here for hours?"
He glances at me. "Since you went to sleep."
"That's…incredible."
"My mother taught me," he says, without me asking. "When I was about twelve. She said it was important to have a signature dish." He adds cannellini beans to the pot and stirs them in. "I chose ribollita because it annoyed Benito that I could make it and he couldn't."
"That's a very you reason to learn to cook."
"Yes," he agrees, without any apparent shame.
"So your mother taught Benito to cook as well? How much time did you spend together growing up?"
"He came down from Florence during the school breaks and one weekend a month. My mamma and his thought it was important for us to know each other."
"And your father didn't mind?"
"Oh, he did, but my grandfather was still alive back then and my mother went to him about it.
He had a real soft spot for her and told my father to let her do whatever she wanted.
He died when I was fifteen and Benito was thirteen.
By then I was a Made Man and if I wanted to visit my brother in Florence, nobody could stop me. "
After that revelation he goes quiet and so do I. He was already in the mafia at fifteen. Does that mean he'd killed someone by then? That's what you have to do to get in, isn't it?
A shudder goes through me, not at the thought of Adriano taking a life because I've made peace with that concept, but at the realisation that he started so young.
At fifteen the biggest drama in my life centred around persuading my parents to let me stay out later at the weekends. He was being initiated into a world there’s no way out of but death. The contrast couldn’t be starker.
The silence drags on for a while as Adriano cooks. Eventually he turns to me.
"Paolo's coming over."
He's mentioned his right-hand man to me but as yet I haven't met him. Apparently he was on a family vacation. Who knew enforcers did such things?
"Tonight?"
"Any time now. There are things we need to discuss." He looks at me briefly. "You don't have to disappear."
"You want me to meet Paolo."
"He's important. You're important. You need to meet sometime."
I'm still basking in the glow of being told I'm important when singing in the corridor heralds Paolo's arrival.
He walks in, hands in pockets, massacring the song Flowers.
It's not the first glimpse of this man I expected.
The way Adriano talked about him I'd pictured him more as the knife-juggling sort of entertainer.
He's shorter than I imagined too. With dark hair going gray at the temples, eyes that have seen things I don't even want to think about and a smile as wide as the Tiber, he looks at Adriano and then at me. He sniffs the air.
"Ribollita."
Ah, identifying dishes from their aroma is his party trick.
"Sit down," Adriano says.
Paolo grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses and joins me at the table.
"Eliza, Paolo. Paolo, Eliza," Adriano says without turning to look at us.
Paolo studies my face and his eyes darken. These men really do not like to see a woman hurt which is ironic since I'm pretty sure Adriano thought about killing me more than once in the beginning. I tilt my head to the side.
"Four stitches." I'm strangely proud of that.
"I know. Simone briefed me." A pause. "Said you barely cried."
Coming from a man who's no stranger to the patching up of wounds, I take that as a compliment.
Adriano serves the ribollita. He puts bowls and spoons in front of both of us and sits at his own place and Paolo picks up his spoon and tastes it and makes a sound of genuine appreciation that seems to come as a slight surprise even to him.
"Better than your mother's," he says.
"Don't tell her that."
"I'm not an idiot."
I taste mine. It's extraordinarily dense and rich. You can tell Adriano took his time over this. The flavours have layered and deepened and the bread has dissolved into it the way it should. At first we talk about Paolo's vacation and it's clear he hated every minute.
"Two weeks on a beach. How awful for you."
"It was," he says sincerely. "There wasn't a damned thing to do but watch the kids dig holes in the sand."
"I'd love a beach holiday." I say wistfully. "I haven't had one in years."
"I'll take you when everything is settled," Adriano promises.
That sounds nice but realistically I doubt everything is ever settled in his world.
As I contemplate that the conversation turns to operational matters. I catch Adriano's eye and gesture toward the stairs, asking if I should leave, but he shakes his head so I stay.
Paolo knows where Marton Vida is staying while in Rome, the men he's brought with him. Apparently they're going to attempt to set up shop here again. That, he says looking me dead in the eye, makes me an even greater threat as far as Vida is concerned.
"I'll take this to Gabriele tomorrow," Adriano says. "See what he wants to do."
Paolo nods and changes the subject.
"The Vettis have been quiet."
Adriano's expression doesn't change. "For now."
"Who are the Vettis?" I ask, not really expecting an answer.
"A gang of drug dealers who're pushing their way into our clubs."
I take another mouthful of food. "What will you do about them?"
"What do you think we should do, cara?"
There's a hint of challenge in Adriano's eye. He's testing me to see how I'll respond. He probably expects me to say to give them a slap on the wrist and send them on their way.
"Watch them for a while, see what they do. If they think they're getting away with dealing in a few clubs, they might try something bigger. You'll get an idea of what their ambitions are. Then you'll know what sort of threat they really pose."
Paolo claps his hands together and lets out a laugh. "Yes. That's exactly what we should do. You should be consigliere instead of Lukas."
"Why? Does he do a bad job?"
"Not at all, cara, but he's not as nice to look at as you."
"Lukas. Was he the man who visited that day? After…." How do I put this? "After we had that meeting in your office."
Paolo barks out another laugh clearly well aware that whatever we were doing in Adriano's office it wasn't having a meeting.
"Yes, that was him."
"Then I disagree entirely. Lukas is just as nice to look at as I am."
Adriano scowls and mutters something about shooting Lukas in the face.
Paolo finishes his bowl and pushes it aside and looks at me.
"Do you cook, Eliza?"
"I do and very well, but Adriano has decided that I'm forbidden from strenuous activities like pouring things into pots and stirring them until I'm fully recovered. I expect he'll be satisfied I'm in good health any time now. The year 2062 perhaps."
Adriano shakes his head. "You were injured, Eliza. You can't be running around…."
"What? Boiling pasta? It's not an extreme sport, Adriano."
Paolo laughs and nudges Adriano. "I like her."
"I didn't ask," Adriano says.
"No," Paolo agrees pleasantly. "But I'm telling you anyway."
Adriano looks at me across the table for a moment. I look back at him and smile. His friend approves of me. I like that.
Paolo looks at his phone as he receives a message. "I've got to go. I'll check in later."
Adriano nods. As Paolo leaves he clears the bowls and wipes down the counter. I stay where I am because god forbid I try to put a plate in the dishwasher.
"The ribollita was incredible," I tell Adriano.
"I know."
I almost laugh. "You're supposed to say thank you."
"Why? It's true." He looks at me. "How are you feeling? Was Paolo's visit too much?"
"I'm not an invalid, Adriano."
He comes back to the table and crouches in front of me. He brushes the hair back from my face. There’s something about his gentleness that catches me by surprise every time he shows it. Those hands are trained to maim and torture men, not to comfort women.
"I know you're not, cara, but I've never worried about someone like this before. Indulge me, please."
I look at him for a moment then nod. When he says things like that what else can I do?