“Working,” I say, which is an answer.
“Not the question.”
I don’t look up. “I tasted everything.”
“Tasting isn’t eating,” he says, already moving. He nods at one of the helpers. “Ten minutes.” Then to Vivian, who’s hovering just outside my circle, “They’re moving to the seating room. Fruit and dessert in fifteen. Give everyone the ten.”
Vivian’s already lifting her tablet. “Yes, sir.”
As the room empties, he opens the lowboy, lifts a half pan of tagliatelle I held warm for a just-in-case and plates a small portion. Butter, flick of the pan, a fall of Parmigiano from the heel I left wrapped in a towel. He sets it on the end of the stainless and nudges a stool with his foot.
“Sit,” he says.
“I have—” I start.
“Ten minutes,” he says. “Fruit can wait. Dessert can wait. You can’t.”
I don’t usually eat when I’m cooking, and I resent a bit being treated like a child.
But he is my boss now, and I need this job. I slide the knife into its slot, wipe my hands, and sit. He puts the plate in front of me and a fork in my hand like I’m five.
The steam hits my face with hints of pork, tomato, and butter, and the first bite hits my stomach like mercy. I didn’t know how empty I was until now.
He watches me take three bites without a word and leans one hip on the table like he has all the time in the world.
“Your timing’s good,” he says. “Everyone is enjoying the food, and you made special food for the girls.”
“I didn’t think they’d want bottarga and veal tonnato with Franciacorta,” I say.
“No, they probably wouldn’t.” There goes that tilt of his mouth again. I stuff more food in my mouth to stop myself from thinking too hard about it.
And about the fact that we’re alone in the kitchen now.
I swallow my bite. “How’s it going out there?”
Damn it. Why did I ask that? It’s none of my business.
Didn’t Luca-fucking-Conti tell me as much just today?
I’m going to get myself killed because I can’t keep my big mouth shut.
He answers anyway.
“Quiet,” he says. “Careful. They’re trying.” A beat. “Your food is doing half the talking.”
I nod, fork suspended. “And the other half?”
“Luca’s nerves. Caterina’s mouth when she forgets herself. Vito’s pacing a groove in the rug.” His eyes flick to me. “Elena’s keeping it all together. Nico is Nico.”
He says is like I should know.
I don’t, but I nod anyway.
I take another bite. Butter, tomato, salt. “That’s good.” I suppose.
“You have flour on your cheek,” he says, like he’s pointing out a hazard on the line.
“Where.” I set the fork down, reach up blindly.
