“You can’t eat if you’re all the way out here.” I wave a hand, indicating for them to follow me. “But you’re eating.”
Lucia is at the far counter when we make our way back to the kitchen, wiping down the surface like I didn’t just finish cleaning it. Her back is to me. She doesn’t acknowledge me but I can’t tell if that’s a lack of interest in me or something else.
I cross to the refrigerator and pull out a few items, holding them up to Lucia. “Is it okay if I make something for the guards?”
She glances at what’s in my hands and gives me a dismissive wave, so I set to work making simplecapresepaninifor them, sandwiches with mozzarella, basil, and fresh tomato.
The guards hover in the doorway their eyes on Lucia. Clearly, they’re not usually allowed in here, and I bite back a smirk.
“Guys, have a seat,” I say, gesturing at the little table in the corner. “And tell me your names.”
They glance at each other then back at Lucia before moving. She rolls her eyes.
“Sit!” She barks at them.
They almost jump but move to the table and sit down quickly.
“Your names?” I prod gently.
The taller one coughs nervously. “Uh, I’m Jett. This is Darius.”
“Jett. Darius.” I nod at each in turn. “So why am I not allowed to go home, gentlemen?”
I give Lucia a sideways glance but she doesn’t look up from her task.
One of them clears his throat. “We don’t have the details, ma’am. Boss’ orders.”
“Hmm,” I say, putting together the sandwiches. “It’s too bad. I have people depending on me at home, a restaurant to manage, employees, patrons.”
Neither guard responds, but the shorter one shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Lucia goes to a ceramic canister and pulls out a glass jar, then walks to where I am preparing the sandwiches. “You makecaprese?”
I nod. She slides the glass jar toward me. “You need this.”
My brow furrows as I hold up the glass jar and view the bright green herb inside. It almost looks like parsley, but it’s not. I open my mouth to speak, and she cuts me off.
“Traditional Italian way. You don’t need much. Crush a bit; add topanini.”
She gives me a hard look and I hold her gaze trying to read her.
“Don’t need much. Just some,” she repeats.
I hold her gaze until she goes back to wiping the far counter that is already spotless, unsure how to respond. But not doing what Lucia tells me in her kitchen? Not an option.
Unscrewing the jar, I pull out some of the herb and crush just a bit. It smells terrible, just awful, and I scrunch my nose. “Is this good?” I ask her.
She glances at the crushed herbs in front of me then swiftly cuts the small pile into two smaller ones then points to one. “Enough for both there.”
I give a short nod then add the ingredient last, drizzling olive oil first so that it sticks to the sandwich. It really doesn’t smell great but the olive oil is aromatic, as are the tomatoes and basil, so it stands out less when I plate and serve them to the guards.
Both men fall on the sandwiches like they’re starving and I wonder if things like meal breaks are a concern of their demanding boss. If this were my home, it would be something I would address immediately. But it’s not.
It’s not long after I’m done cleaning up the mess I made cooking that the guard with the heavy jaw sits up straight in his chair, shoving back his plate.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I feel like I’m going to puke. But my legs…”
He leans down and rubs his legs, then wraps his hands around one of his thighs like he’s trying to pick it up and move it manually. The shorter guard turns and vomits on the floor.
