Did she pass the audition or not?
I fold the napkin, set it beside the plate. It’s the only move that won’t say too much.
“You’ll hear from me,” I say, standing.
Your eyebrows lift a fraction in disbelief. “I’ll hear from you?”
“Yes.” I slide the chair in with my knee. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I thought you said you don’t play games,” she says.
“I meant it,” I say. “This isn’t a game.”
“Feels like one.”
“Thank you for the meal, Bianca,” I say.
I tap the edge of the plate once and step away.
Francesca catches my eye from the host stand. I give her nothing. Coat on. Door. Bell rings. Night air clears the room from my lungs.
I don’t look back through the glass. If I do, I’ll stay. Instead, I cross to the car, hands loose, jaw tight.
She can cook. She can handle me. That’s a problem.
I start the engine but don’t drive off.
I know what my brothers will say. They’ll tell me I’m doing the one thing I said I wouldn’t do: mixing business and… whatever this is. They wouldn’t be wrong.
I’m careful. I also know when something works. Tonight worked.
I sigh and pull out of the space.
Too late to back out now.
Chapter Nine
Bianca
The house is dark and cool. I fold into the pillow and go under fast, like a stone.
In the dream, I’m in a kitchen that isn’t mine. Not Regalia. Not Nonna’s. Smooth counters, heavy knives, a window that looks out over a city I know without seeing.
His kitchen.
He’s behind me before I turn. Quiet in that way he has. Heat pumps off him even though the room is cool. He doesn’t touch me at first. He sets a board next to my elbow and says, “Show me,” like it’s a test.
I reach for a lemon. The knife slides through. His breath moves the loose hairs at my neck. “Thinner,” he says, and I go thinner. I feel it everywhere.
A pot hisses. I lift the lid, and the steam kisses my face. He steps closer to look. His hand comes around, not on me—on the handle I’m about to grab barehanded. He crowds the space just enough that my back molds to the shape of his chest without actually feeling it.
“Careful,” he says, low. “I need your hands.”
The word “need” is heavy in my gut.
I stir. Tomato and garlic open up, and the air gets rich with it. He reaches past me for the spoon. The back of his wrist grazes my hip. That small drag of knuckles through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt lights me up as if I stood too close to the oven.
“Taste,” he says. The word hits the same spot low in my gut that it did at Regalia two nights ago. He holds the spoon up, daring me.
