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He settles for a “You’re welcome” before returning to his tasks.
He probably wanted to tell me off for being so stupid, and I would have deserved it.
But it’s clear that’s all I’m going to get from him. Sighing, I turn to the fridge and begin rummaging through it.
“There’s enough for two here.” Alonso’s voice startles me, and I nearly drop the bottle of juice I picked up.
I look at him in surprise. Is this a peace offering? Even if it isn’t, I gladly accept it.
Whatever he’s cooking smells divine. My mouth is still drooling, and my stomach is still loudly protesting at the lack of food.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I sit down on a bar stool by the island. “What are you cooking? It smells delicious.”
“Just chicken carbonara,” Alonso replies curtly. I’m undeterred by his shortness.
I want to know more about the man who’s tasked with my security. I regard him as a friend. By now, we’ve spent a significant amount of time together. We’ve laughed and ganged up on Oriana. I feel a bond with him, and it pains me he’s put up a dense wall.
“Why are you cooking so late?” I ask to keep the conversation flowing. Well, flowing might not be the right word…
“End of shift.” Is all he says, but I’m determined to get him talking more. He was so chatty before. Surely I can coax that side out of him again.
“So, if you’re here, who’s watching over me, then?” I actually want to know. Every bit of information could be useful for planning my next—and this time successful—escape.
“Oriana.”
Oh. My face falls. She avoided the fiasco of my escape. This will undoubtedly give her more fuel for disliking me.
“How long has she worked for Gualtiero?” I ask.
“About a year.” Interesting. Why would he need a female guard? Does he kidnap women regularly and then need them watched?
As if reading my mind, Alonso elaborates a little. “She has come in handy. In certain situations, women have better access.”
Oh, I wonder what kind of situations. My curiosity is raised. Could I get Oriana to talk to me? Perhaps there’s a way to win her trust?
She has a crush on Gualtiero… would she help me if the path to him was cleared for her by my disappearance? And what about women’s solidarity and all?
But who am I kidding? It’s obvious she’s loyal to him. She’d probably do anything to please him, and helping me escape would achieve the opposite. He’d probably kill her.
Alonso serves up the food, and my mouth waters. I gobble the first bite and moan in appreciation. From the corner of my eye, I see Alonso almost smile. I don’t hold back with my grin.
“This is delicious!” I praise, taking another mouthful. “Better even than what I had at some restaurants. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My grandmother taught me.” He chews his food, clearly lost in thought. “Food bonds Italian families. Girls are taught early on. I joined my sisters when they had their lessons. Unlike them, I loved it. I wanted to become a chef, dreamed of having my own restaurant.”
My fork hovers mid-air as I stare at the muscly, at times menacing-looking man in surprise. I’m not sure what shocks me more, that he just spoke the most sentences in one go since the escape debacle, or that he wants to be a chef.
Without a doubt, he’s got the talent. With an interest like this, how do you end up working for the mob? Dodging bullets and fist fighting?
He looks up from his plate and at my fork that still hasn’t made its way to my mouth. He cocks an eyebrow, and I continue eating.
“Wow, you are full of surprises,” I finally say. “Why on earth are you working here and not in a Michelin star restaurant?”
He laughs humorlessly and shakes his head. “Family tradition.” Is all he offers as a response. I wait for more, but he remains silent.
We eat, only the sounds of clinking forks on plates fill the air. I polish off my food in record time—I really was starving.
Alonso takes my empty plate, rinses it, and puts it in the dishwasher. He’s domesticated too. I suddenly wonder if he’s married or has a girlfriend. His fingers are ringless. I’m about to ask him when he turns to me and, with a curt nod, leaves the kitchen.
