I bite my tongue to prevent another insult escaping me. As much as I enjoy the banter this man is not my friend or my lover. He brought me here to punish me in some way and I can't forget that.
I take a larger gulp of wine and set my glass down.
Adriano picks up his fork and I watch as he tries the pasta.
"Adequate," he pronounces.
Again, I don't rise to the bait and let it slide. As pasta al pomodoro goes, this is pretty good.
"Who taught you to cook?" he asks.
"My mom and my grandmother."
That's the entirety of our conversation. We eat in silence, Adriano shoveling the pasta into his mouth in a way that suggests he finds it more than adequate. He hums in between mouthfuls. I’ll bet he doesn’t know he does that.
When both of our plates are cleared, he takes them both to the sink and rinses them off before placing them in the dishwasher. It's an oddly domestic action for a man who's anything but tame.
He turns to look at me.
"Come."
We're back to treating me like a dog, it seems. I follow him back up the stairs we came down, lamenting that I'm not getting to see more of the house. I want to know if it's all this soulless.
I head into the bedroom but he doesn't follow.
"Tomorrow you'll cook again. A proper meal."
"Your wish is my command."
He looks at me for a moment with an expression I can't read. Then he pulls the door closed and the lock whirs. I sit on the edge of the bed and think about how close he stood at the stove, the feel of his fingers on my wrist, the strangely companionable silence as we ate. Adriano Volante is an enigma. I'm excited to unravel the mystery. Whatever the consequences.
SIX
Adriano
After I leave Eliza, I head downstairs to my study and pour a measure of Scotch I don't particularly want into a glass. I cross to the window and look out into the darkness. Everything is quiet. Three kilometers from the nearest village, it always is. It's why I chose this place. I like being among people but when I come home at night I want to leave the world behind. Well, most of it anyway.
In the distance I see the outline of the wall that surrounds the property and the silhouette of the cypress trees. Movement in the corner of my eye as my men patrol the perimeter is a reminder that a man like me is never truly alone.
My security team know not to bother me unless it's absolutely necessary. In the two years I've lived here they've never had occasion to disturb my peace. It's almost insulting. My cousins have all had intruders on their properties. I'm also an important member of the Volante family, but nobody has tried to murder me in my bed. I suppose I should be grateful for that.
As I look out over the vast tract of land I own I can't help comparing it with Gabriele's home. The property around his villa was similarly bleak before Katya worked her magic. She has a real eye for detail. She's brought life to what was once a mausoleum.
My mind drifts to the woman upstairs. What texture might she add to my life if I let her?
I sip my Scotch and think about the meal we shared. That simple spaghetti in tomato sauce might be the best thing I've eaten in a long time. I suspect it's because it came with a generous helping of sass on the side.
Women who talk back have irritated me in the past. I face enough challenges during my day without someone squaring up to me in my downtime as well. I always preferred women who complied with my demands without question. With Eliza it's different. I enjoy it when she fights back. I can't begin to explain why, but I want to earn her submission.
I finish the Scotch and set the glass down on my desk, a whitewashed wooden slab sitting on an asymmetrical metal frame. Like most things in this house I fucking hate it. When I hired Lola Vicenze to decorate the place I gave her free rein to create a modern living space with minimal clutter. She somehow read that as "make my house as uncomfortable as possible."
Because I was occupied with business and also with chasing Eliza down, I didn't keep a close enough eye on what Lola was doing. When I returned to Rome for a few days after tracking down a false lead in Madrid, I found the place already finished. As much as I'd like to blame Eliza for my décor disaster I can't. I'm the one who took my eye off the ball and hasn't done anything to put things right.
While Eliza is definitely not responsible for the state of my home she is the cause of the prickling beneath my skin. It started when I stood next to her at the stove, not touching, but closeenough to feel the heat of her body. Fuck! That woman makes me want to do things to her I shouldn't even be contemplating. Not before I get the answers Gabriele needs.
I head back upstairs, fully intending to go to my own bedroom to watch the highlights of the match between AC Milan and Real Madrid. Instead, I find myself hovering outside Eliza's door. I listen for a moment but there's no sound from within. I press my finger to the metal pad on the wall and unlock the door.
When I enter the room a cool breeze hits me. Eliza is on the balcony, looking out over the same part of the garden I was staring at from my office window. A more poetic man might make something of that.
