Page 18 of Blood Orange Christmas
I step into the room. My voice is low because it should be. “Does he know who I am?”
8
SERENA
“Does he know who I am?” Dante asks.
“No,” I say, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t wake Marco. “I haven’t told him.”
Dante stays in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he’s anchoring the house. The fire settles with a soft click. Marco’s toy car is still tucked against his side. I pull the shawl higher over my son’s shoulder and leave my hand there a second more. Then I make myself look up.
“He asks why he doesn’t have a papa,” I say. “I tell him he has me. It isn’t the answer he wants, but it’s the one I can live with for now.” I draw a breath I don’t quite feel reach the bottom of my ribs. “I know that costs you. I’m sorry. You’re his father. Seeing him like this must be hard.”
“Hard and easy,” he says. “He looks like he sleeps well.”
“He does.” I step away from the couch so the words don’t fall on Marco. “I need him protected. That’s my first and last conditionfor anything. I’m not putting four years of answers on his shoulders unless I have a reason I can defend.”
“You think I can’t be a father,” he says, and it sounds like a test.
“I think you’d be a good one,” I say, and it cracks something in my chest to admit it. “You’d teach him to look people in the eye and ask the right questions. You’d make him taste the sauce before he salts it. You wouldn’t let him be afraid of the dark. But your life teaches other lessons too. I don’t know if he should learn those. And I don’t know if you have the kind of time a father needs.”
He studies me without blinking. The line of his jaw eases half a degree. “I won’t push it,” he says. “Not tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.
The house changes an instant before the voices reach us. The Morettis arrive like a tide—suits, pearls, red soles crossing old stone, gentle laughs that have teeth behind them. Somewhere down the corridor a server says “permesso” and a door doesn’t quite close. Villa Rosso adjusts, the way old buildings do when they remember what they were built to survive.
“I have to work,” he says, eyes cutting toward the sound, then back to me like he’s making sure I haven’t moved.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I tell him. “Where I belong.”
Harrison appears at the end of the hall with a ledger tucked under his arm and a glance that carries a list. Dante answers with the smallest nod, and the two of them slide back into their lines. I tuck the shawl under Marco’s chin and whisper that I’ll be nearby. He doesn’t stir. I leave the library and walk into the hum.
The kitchen breathes heat and purpose. Copper catches firelight. Knives blink on the boards. Steam curls above the sink like a habit. I wash my hands, tie my hair, and step into a rhythm that doesn’t ask me to lie. Citrus oil for the finish. Clams purging in salted water. Baccalà loosened to silk with a steady wrist and patience. The dishwasher hums a melody I almost recognize. Servers swing through in pairs, their trays floating levelly, their steps respectful of the invisible lines that keep a room alive.
My name echoes from the dining room in voices I don’t trust. The chef with the citrus truffle. The Roman who got the sea bass right. The one who works cleanly. I keep my head down, tasting and salting and feeling for the small stumbles that turn into problems if you don’t catch them now. A pan runs hot. I lift it off the flame and let it calm. A sauce tastes flat. I add a breath of lemon and it stands up straighter. This is a language I speak without thinking.
Marco appears in the doorway with two staff at a decent distance, powdered sugar on his cheek, a pastry in his hand and news ready on his tongue. “The fountain is my castle,” he declares. “And the dog burped.”
“No more soup for the dog,” I tell him, wiping his fingers. “Find Gabriella. Show her where brave cars sleep.”
He salutes in a way that makes both servers smile, then marches off toward the corridor, small shoulders squared, already certain the house will listen if he speaks clearly. He thinks this is a vacation. I want that for him. I also want a door with only my key.
We send the next course. Heat rolls out and back. The clatter settles. Someone on the far side calls “complimenti” like it costs them nothing. I breathe once and look at the list taped to thewall, not because I’ve forgotten anything, but because looking at order brings my pulse down.
The service door opens and a man I don’t know crosses to the wrong side of the pass. He wears a fitted suit the color of good coffee and a smile that expects servants to move around it. He doesn’t move like staff. He moves like rooms move for him.
“Scusi,” he says as if he belongs. “You’re the chef. The one with the lemon.”
“What can I get you,Signore?” I say without stopping my hands. “Special requests go through the servers.”
“How long have you worked for Dante?” he asks. He says Dante like a first name and a threat.
“Tonight,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow if I don’t burn the place down.”
He laughs, too loud for this room. “He trusts you for a big night after only a day?”
“He trusts the food,” I say. “And Gabriella. She could run a ship in a storm.”
