Alessio looks me over from head to toe, not bothering to hide it. He gives a small nod, ends his call, and motions for me to come closer with a single, commanding gesture. “Come here, Lucia.”
I do as he asks. I sit on the edge of the mattress, watching his hands as he sends one last message, then move into his lap.He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close, as if I’m something valuable he wants to enjoy fully.
“You said noon,” I remind him.
“It’s noon somewhere,” he says, and kisses the hollow at my collarbone.
I lean my head on his shoulder, letting the familiarity of it wrap around me. “You’re really moving me in?”
He laughs, and this time it’s not sharp. “I told you. You’re mine now. Unless you want out?”
I should leave. Every logical part of me says, "Run." But instead, I just shake my head and let his hand rest, heavy and warm, on my bare thigh.
“Thought so,” he says, and bites my ear. “Let’s show you the rest of the place.”
The penthouse is larger than my father’s Manhattan house and feels much more alive. The living room is filled with Italian leather and dark stone, and a wall of bookshelves holds worn hardcovers with gold accents. Art fills the space: rough sculptures, moody street photos, and an oil painting I remember from MoMA, now marked with a few bullet holes for effect.
The kitchen is another world: white subway tile, polished steel, and the stink of real olive oil, garlic, and simmering tomato. A woman is hunched over the stove, ladling deep red sauce from a battered Dutch oven. She’s old enough to be my mother, face mapped in creases, a neat black chignon pinned high on her head. She wears a crisp white apron and a necklace of cheap red beads.
“Chiara,” Alessio says, “this is Lucia. She’s the lady of the house now.”
Chiara looks me up and down. Not disapproving, exactly—just curious, like she’s trying to fit me into a recipe. Her voice is pure Naples, warm and crackling: “Lady, is it? You look like you need a good meal and a long nap.”
Alessio laughs and squeezes my hand. “She’s moving in. Anything she wants, she gets.”
Chiara winks at me. “Even if she wants to cook for herself?”
I step forward, letting myself blush a little. “If you’ll let me.”
Chiara pats me on the back so hard I almost stumble. “Molto bene.Put this on and be careful not to burn yourself.” She hands me a navy apron. “Men always have too many opinions in this kitchen. I like a girl who wants to help.”
Alessio says, “I’ll be back in an hour. You two—behave.” Then he fake-salutes the old woman and disappears down the hall.
For a minute, Chiara and I just stand, stirring sauce in tandem. Steam rises between us, carrying the scent of basil and garlic. When I compliment her technique, she snorts: "Girls these days, they think a kitchen is for photoshoots." Her knife comes down in three swift, precise motions, reducing a red pepper to perfect half-moons. Not a seed spilled. "You cook?" she asks, eyes never leaving the cutting board.
“I try,” I say. “My parents never let me use the stove. Said I’d burn down the house.”
“They were fools.” Chiara shoves a wooden spoon into my hand and gestures at the pot. “Taste. More salt?”
I bring the spoon to my lips, close my eyes. It tastes like sunlight, tart and bright and a little sweet. “Perfect,” I whisper.
“Mmm.” Chiara nods, approves. “Put your heart in, always. Food knows.”
We work side by side. I chop onions in time with her, clean the counters, and try not to stare when she tastes the sauce with her fingers, without hesitation. When the sauce is just right, she turns down the heat, filling the room with gentle steam. She makes three cups of espresso and pours the last one into a chipped mug for herself.
My phone vibrates for the fourth time in the past 10 minutes. I ignore it, but Chiara doesn’t miss a thing. “He said you’reimportant,” she says. “So why do you look like the sauce just spoiled?”
I hesitate, then set my phone face-up on the counter. The screen is a parade of missed calls: Dad, Dad, Dad, my brother’s lawyer, my Aunt Ginny.
“My father found out I left home,” I say. “And he’s not happy.”
Chiara shrugs. “No fathers are happy. That is their job. Maybe someday they'll get over it.” She sips espresso, then locks eyes with me. “But you—what do you want?”
I want to belong to myself. To wake up every morning in that bed, to never again have to tiptoe around my own house. To have a daughter one day and teach her to scramble eggs while the world is asleep.
I don’t say any of this. I just shrug back.
“That’s the thing,” Chiara says, and for a moment she looks sad. “You can have anything in this house. Except peace.”