I was right about the pantry being at the side of the kitchen.
"And the pans?"
"Cabinet under there." He points to the island.
I go to check out the refrigerator first. It's well stocked, mainly with dairy products and fresh juice. Then I head to the pantry. There are tomatoes, tinned, not fresh but they're San Marzano so that's okay.
There's dried pasta in every conceivable shape and olive oil that I recognize as one of the most expensive on the market. Only the best for my criminal overlord.
After three years of buying supermarket brands and sale items, the abundance is almost obscene. I’ll bet it never crosses Adriano’s mind how lucky he is to have access to the best of everything. I mentally chastise myself. Why am I getting upset over a tin of tomatoes?
I gather the ingredients along with fresh garlic and some basil before returning to the kitchen where Adriano has made himself comfortable on a high-backed stool at the island.
"Puttanesca's out. There are no anchovies."
"Okay, so make something else."
"I'm doing pasta pomodoro."
He makes a sound of disdain. "That's what you give a child."
"Seems appropriate."
He raises an eyebrow. "You're calling me a child?"
I shrug. "You called me a whore." I set the ingredients down on the countertop. "You can complain or you can eat. It's up to you."
Something shifts in his expression. It's not quite amusement but it isn't an angrier emotion either. I think it might be appreciation. Does he like when I push back against him?
I consider our interactions so far. His eyes do gleam a little darker when I talk back. That's worth remembering, though I'll have to be careful not to cross a line. I suspect Adriano's good humor only stretches so far.
I find a couple of pans. Filling one with water, which I salt generously, I set it on the back burner. Then I place a frying pan on the front burner and set the heat to medium. I add a splash of olive oil and look around for a knife.
"Left drawer in the island," Adriano says.
I retrieve a knife.
"And a chopping board?"
"You can cut straight onto the worktops. They're made for it."
I had suspected as much but I didn't want to assume and cause untold damage to his obviously expensive kitchen.
I turn my back to him and peel four cloves of garlic. I crush them flat with the side of the knife and add a touch of salt before smoothing them into a paste. My mother taught me that when I was young.
I drop the garlic into the oil. The smell instantly transports me to the kitchen in my childhood home where I stood on a wooden stool to cook by my mom’s side. A smile touches my lips.
Suddenly Adriano appears next to me, looking into the pan.
"The heat's too high. You'll burn the garlic."
"No, I won't."
Suspicion forms in my mind. Adriano knew exactly where everything was in this kitchen and now he's worried about the temperature I'm frying the garlic at.
"You can cook." It's not meant to be the accusation it comes out as.
"Never said I couldn't." Adriano grins before sauntering away. "But I've no intention of cooking for you."
