“It’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing. It’s an offering, and I’m charmed.
Twilight has deepened over Florence’s terracotta rooftops as we get ready to share dinner in Nico’s apartment.
He tosses garlic in olive oil from last year’s harvest, its green-gold sheen coating each clove before they hiss against the hot pan.
He adds anchovies that dissolve into molten ribbons of salt and depth, and by the time the pasta slides into the water, their scent has seeped into every corner of the air. He moves with deliberate care—each stir, each flick of his wrist precise, as if he is composing music rather than dinner.
It’s a revelation—a piece of him I didn’t know about. Nico can cook.
“You want to tell me what you three were doing this morning?” he asks.
I break away a piece of focaccia.
He didn’t make that. He told me, and even if he hadn’t, I’d know that it came from the restaurant downstairs.
I dip the bread into the Alighieri olive oil—this one is lemony and spicy.
“I went to the Uffizi today,” I tell him, completely ignoring his question. “Have you ever wondered if Caravaggio was right in the head?”
“Because he painted so many of them chopped off?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
“I think he was brilliant and feral and deeply uninterested in being cured.” Nico shakes the pan to coat the pasta generously with the sauce. “Which is probably why his paintings still breathe.”
I glance at him. “I don’t know about that, considering all those chopped heads.”
He turns off the stove and leans back against the counter. “But he’s not my favorite.”
“No?” I arch a brow. “Let me guess—Botticelli. Every man loves a little idealized beauty.”
He snorts. “Absolutely not. Too much perfection. Too much airbrushing. It’s almost like he photoshopped those damn women.”
I smile despite myself. “So?”
He starts to plate the pasta. There’s something artistic about how he does it, but also casual—like he learned to cook in his mother’s kitchen, as I did. He tears off a few fresh basil leaves and cuts them into a fine chiffonade.
“Artemisia Gentileschi.”
That stops me.
“Judith,” he explains. “I know there are other prettier, more stylized, elegant, and less violent versions of Judith beheading Holofernes, where the artist, like say Klimt or Botticelli, focuses more on her beauty, her ornate dress, and theaftermathrather than the blood-soaked action. But I likeGentileschi—where you can feel the weight of her sword. The strain in her arms. The resolve.”
He scatters the thin strips of basil over the pasta. “Gentileschi painted her with guts. She doesn’t look shocked by what she’s doing. She’s just…decided.”
A beat passes between us.
“She reminds me of you,” he adds as he carries the plates to the small breakfast nook by the windows overlooking the city. “Will you bring the wine?”
I pick up the bottle of Alighieri Vermentino he’s opened and carry it to the table.
“Why does she remind you of me?” I ask. “Because she’s so…violent?”
I hope not.
He pulls out my chair, and when I sit, he kisses my lips softly. “No,cara. Because she doesn’t ask for permission. Because she understands that power is something you take responsibility for—not something you apologize for.”
