Dante's voice pulls me back. The car has stopped in front of the Sartori compound.
Dante opens my door, and I step out on legs that feel steadier than they should.
"Someone will meet you at the door," Dante says. His eyes do that scanning thing again—gates, guards, roofline. "I'll be here later to take you home."
"Thank you."
He nods once.
I turn toward the house, my cheap flats crunching on the pristine gravel. The gates close behind me with a clang that sounds way too much like a cell door.
Two months, I remind myself. Just two months.
The front door swings open before I even reach the top step.
A woman stands in the doorway. Late fifties, maybe. Dark hair streaked with silver, pulled back. Warm eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles. She's wiping her hands on an apron that's already dusted with flour.
"You must be Kristen." She says. "I'm Giulia. Come in, come in. You'll freeze out there."
She ushers me inside before I can respond.
"Thank you, I?—"
"No standing in doorways. Bad luck." Giulia waves a dismissive hand and starts walking. "Come. Kitchen first. You need coffee."
I do.
I follow her through the foyer, past the grand staircase I remember from dinner.
The kitchen is massive. Professional-grade appliances, marble countertops, a center island big enough to land a small plane. Copper pots hang from a rack near the stove. Herbs grow in terracotta pots on the windowsill. The room smells like fresh bread and sausage, maybe.
"Sit." Giulia points to a stool at the island. "How do you take your coffee?"
"Um, just black is fine?—"
"Black." She makes a tsk sound. "You need more than black. Cream? Sugar?"
"Really, I don't want to be any trouble?—"
"Trouble." She laughs, already pulling a mug from the cabinet. "Thirty years I've fed this family. You think making coffee is trouble?"
I sit. Because arguing with this woman seems like a losing battle.
She sets a steaming mug in front of me—coffee with just a splash of cream, despite my protest—then turns back to the stove.
"You've eaten?"
"I had a granola bar?—"
A plate appears in front of me. Scrambled eggs, two sausage links, toast with butter already melting into the bread. My stomach growls loud enough.
Traitor.
"Eat." Giulia settles onto the stool across from me, her own coffee cradled in weathered hands. "Then we talk about the house."
I take a bite of the eggs. They're perfect. Fluffy, seasoned just right, with herbs from those windowsill pots, maybe.
"This is amazing," I say around a mouthful. Jack would have been horrified at my lack of table manners. Chew with your mouth closed, Kristen. Were you raised in a barn?
