Page 57 of Blood Orange Christmas
“Tell me again if he becomes somewhere.” I scan the hall. “Rinaldi?”
“Sends regrets,” Luca says dryly. “And a bottle of something older than sin. We didn’t open it.”
“Good,” I say. “We’ll baptize the gravel with it later.”
Camilla slides in on quiet feet, two phones in two clear bags. “Door buzzers tested,” she says. “Kitchen line clean. If a camera blinks, it’s because I let it.”
“Anyone touch the trunk lines on the road?”
“A fox,” she says. “Rocco fed it sausage. It filed a complaint.”
The first guests come with the practiced laughter of people who like being expected. I receive them with my jacket open and my hands empty. Old Man Corsi smells like a cologne that costs a car payment. He kisses both my cheeks and calls the room beautiful like it belongs to him. His heir hovers, hungry, eyes taking notes he won’t read.
The Moretti patriarch arrives precisely when he means to be noticed. He wears his age like armor. His suit is navy, his coat is camel, his smile is a blade he keeps clean. Behind him, the heir with the jaw—sharper tonight, hair too neat, tie a little tight. Their consigliere, immaculate and amused, carries the kind of face that has seen men bleed for less than a wrong adjective.
“Accardi,” the patriarch says, warm as a winter sun that can still kill you. “Your house is generous.”
“It tries,” I say. “Tonight, it lives on your blessing.”
He laughs in the back of his throat. “Blessings are for saints. I bring appetite.”
“Then we won’t insult you,” I say, and he approves of that.
We seat them, the loud at the kitchen side, where the hum can drown a boast. The careful where I can see their hands. Women where they’ll hear everything. Men who think they move pieceswhere they’ll discover they’re the board. My place is not the head chair. I take a seat that sees the arch, the pass, the Morettis’ reflection in the plate cover, and the mark under the flute if a man with good knees checks.
The doors from the kitchen shake a breath, then the first plates float out on a tide of heat and oil. Fried baccalà lands crisp and light, steam whispering. Serena’s batter is thin and cold, the oil is hot and honest, the salt tells the truth. The fish shatters when you bite. The inside stays soft, silk under crunch. The aioli on the side shines like a coin in sunlight. A lemon wedge waits to be useful. I watch faces. Surprise first, then pleasure. The right kind of quiet. A couple of the Moretti boys clap with their forks like they remember being human.
Servers move like a school that’s done this dance since before they could read. No plate sits. No plate dies. The kitchen door breathes and Hannah—one of the new girls who already moves like family—winks at me without knowing she’s done it. Luca shadows the arch with a look that says he could kill a fly mid-air with a linen napkin.
I let myself taste one piece of baccalà with my fingers, tearing it in half so the steam hits my face and the salt carries the lemon. My grandmother used to say fried fish is a prayer—it either lifts you or it ruins you. Serena only prays one way.
Spaghetti alle vongole follows, clam shells clattering like applause. The pasta is thin and springing, the sauce slick with good oil and the right amount of garlic. Chili hums low, parsley confetti. I watch the steam, then the mouths. The patriarch’s eye crinkles by one degree. For a man like him, that’s the same as throwing a hat in the air.
Between courses, conversation eddies into the usual lies—routes and “partnerships”, the magistrate who wants press, a boy with a boat he can’t park. I take their measure without buying their stories. Harrison skims the walls, ledger in his head, a seat behind the patriarch always in reach. Camilla ghosts near the sideboard, gaze soft as silk, mind like a trap. Rocco pretends to talk to a server and watches the corridor with his other eye.
Grilled eel lands with balsamic that’s been reduced to a shine, sweet and dark enough to keep secrets. The flesh is rich, the skin crisped and lacquered. Fennel threads soften the edge and orange zest wakes it up. The Moretti heir says something about Rome as if Rome belongs to his teeth. I let him finish, then feed him another bite by making sure his plate isn’t empty. Men don’t start fights with full mouths. Not usually.
I feel Serena through the door the way a soldier knows where his partner is on a dark road. We don’t look at each other because we don’t need to. She is a fixed point. It makes everything else fluid.
All night, my eyes are on corners. The wine arrives at the right times, at the right temperatures, from the right bottles—ones Serena pulled with her own hands and marked like a saint marks a door. The decanters are theater only. Nothing touches air we didn’t approve. Anyone who wants to swap a bottle will walk face-first into a wall, and I will enjoy apologizing to their family later.
The final fish leaves the pass, and the air changes. It happens every feast night—talk rises, then the tide turns and the room waits for the part where men pretend to like speeches. Tonight, the shift carries a charge, a flicker you’d miss if you didn’t live on edges. The candles draw smaller circles. The silver holds its breath. Even the flowers sit up straighter.
Harrison is at my shoulder without my calling him. “Cellar’s tight,” he says under his breath. “Dry storage seals unbroken. Your X is where you left it.”
“Any itch?” I ask.
“One,” he says. “Driver from last week tried the service door. Luca sent him to church.”
“Good,” I say and drain the last of my water because I want my mouth clean for what comes next.
Gabriella appears with a silver tray and six flutes. Five are twins. One carries a weight only we feel. I let my fingers skate the foot of the head chair’s glass. The small notch is there. The white pencil X hides in its shadow. I think of Serena’s knife tip making the mark. I think of her tongue tasting almond and tin and spitting it out like an insult.
I stand.
The room quiets the way rooms do when old habits run the show. Chairs hush. Forks decide to rest. The patriarch leans back a degree, expression like a door left soft on purpose. The heir lowers his jaw. The consigliere smiles with his eyes as if nothing surprises him. It’s a good face. I don’t trust it.
“Friends,” I say, and the word is a suit I wear because it fits the occasion. “You’ve eaten well. You’ve said things you’ll pretend you didn’t say. You’ve measured the room and found your place in it. So have I.”
