The next morning, the container was gone. In its place was another one that looked much the same and smelled faintly of eggs.
My stomach practically jumped out of my throat to get to them.
Running into the bathroom, I took care of my most urgent needs as fast as I could, and then I grabbed the container off the dresser, sat down right there on the floor, and ripped it open. I was right about the eggs. But they weren’t just any old eggs. These had green onions, tomatoes, cheese, and some kind of other seasonings I’d never smelled before.
There was also a fresh bagel and soft cream cheese mixed with honey.
Weighing my options, I started with the bagel, figuring it would be the safer choice. Despite my hunger, I forced myself to take only three small bites and not shove it all down my throat like I had last night, giving my stomach time to accept the food. And to see if it was poisoned. When nothing happened, I took a few more. Then I tried the eggs.
To my surprise, I could only eat half of it. With a sound of disappointment, I snapped the top back onto the container and wrapped up the rest of the bagel to save for a little later, stashing it all in the bottom drawer of the dresser so no one would sneak in and take it. The eggs were still warm, so I figured they’d be okay sitting out for another hour or so. Then I sat there waiting to see if my stomach was going to revolt or not. It was a little touch and go at first, but I managed to keep down my breakfast.
After about an hour, I finished the meal, even though I wasn’t actually hungry. Just in case. I couldn’t let it sit there and go bad, not when I didn’t know if or when there would be more.
Hiding the empty container in the dresser, I found a pair of black, wide-leg yoga pants and a soft blue T-shirt with horizontal white stripes and took them with me into the bathroom to take another shower. I didn’t really need it, but it was something to pass the time.
When I came out, Gino was standing in the middle of the room. Nervously, I glanced toward the dresser and the hidden container. I should’ve rinsed it out. Could he smell the food? Hopefully not.
“Luca is coming over,” he said when I gave him a questioning look. “And Betta had to take the day off for some kind of family thing. I need you to come out and serve us lunch while he’s here.”
“Of course,” I told him. Looking down at myself, I added. “I should change.”
Gino gave me a cursory glance. “You’re fine. It’s nothing formal.” He caught my bare feet. “Just put on some shoes and go on down to the kitchen. They’ll be here in about thirty minutes.”
Nothing like giving me some notice. But all I said was, “Okay.”
He turned on his heel and left without saying anything else, leaving my door open behind him.
Freedom!
Sort of. I was still stuck in the house, but after spending weeks locked in my room, I felt like I was about to go to Disney World.
I slid on my most comfy slip-on shoes, grabbed the bag with the empty container inside, and practically skipped to the kitchen. The chef—I had no idea what her name was—was busy whipping up lunch. No sandwiches and chips for Gino and his guests. Oh, no. She was cooking risotto with veal, maybe? And a fancy salad. “Need some help?” I asked her.
“If you could go get the wine from the storeroom,” she said. “I’ve already picked it out. Mr. Ricci prefers the chardonnay with his veal. Top shelf. Third over from the left.”
“Got it.” Hurrying down to the storeroom, I found the wine. “That smells wonderful,” I told the chef when I returned. I wished I knew her name. Gino had just introduced her as “the chef” when I’d first arrived. And it seemed weird to ask her now. She was always very nice, though. However, I didn’t think she was stupid enough to risk her job—or possibly her life—by sneaking me food. But it had to be someone in the house.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “Mr. Luca is a very important guest. He gets only the best.”
A thought occurred to me. “What did you make last night?”
“Last night?”
I nodded.
She thought about it for a second. “Oh! I made Mr. Ricci’s favorite, gnocchi pasta with clams.”
“No chicken?”
She shook her head. “Mr. Ricci isn’t a huge fan of chicken. I hardly ever make it.”
Shit.
“Does anyone else in the house ever cook?”
This time, she glanced at me, her brow furrowed. “No. I’m the only one who cooks. Mr. Ricci doesn’t trust anyone else with his food. Why do you ask?”
I shook my head and widened my eyes to look innocent. “No reason. I was just wondering. The food is always so good.”
