“Come, Dandelion. I will feed you.” I fold my arms across my chest and look at him through narrowed eyes. He chuckles. “Not soap. I promise.”
“Asshole.” I step out into the hallway. Although it’s late, lamps cast a soft glow as we make our way down the stairs and through the house to the kitchen. A place is set on the table for one, a plate of food covered.
“Sit down,” he tells me, taking the dish and putting it into the microwave as I sit. He leans against the counter, watching me as the minutes tick by.
“Aren’t you eating?” I ask.
“I already ate.”
Of course. I pick a pepper out of the salad and bite into it. When the microwave dings, he takes the dish out and carries it over to me. It’s a steaming, generous piece of lasagna and the smell makes my mouth water.
I pick up my knife and fork and cut into it. He watches as I inhale deeply and put the first bite into my mouth. It’s so hot it burns my tongue, but I don’t care. I’m so hungry. I swallow, cut out a larger second bite and eat.
“Wine?” he asks as he pours me a glass.
I pick it up and drink, loving the depth of the red, knowing it will bring with it the softening of my limbs. The easing along the jagged edges of my strange life.
Amadeo takes the seat across from mine and watches me devour the huge slice of lasagna before I push the plate aside and start on a salad drenched in olive oil, lemon, and salt. Exactly how I like it.
When I’m finished with the food, I sit back and drink my wine as he sets the dishes in the sink, then places another plate in front of me. This makes me sit up, anxiety creeping in. I glance at him, then back down to the generous serving of panna cotta with a single candle set in the middle of it. He lights it with a match from one of the drawers and looks at me.
“What is this?” I ask, remembering how his every move is calculated. Everything he does is for a purpose. What did he want when he kissed me? That wasn’t calculated. I don’t think so, at least. That was raw impulse. Want. Need.
“Happy Birthday, Dandelion. A few days early.”
I’m confused. Why does he care about my birthday?
“I couldn’t fit twenty-one candles,” he says, and I’m trying to figure out what he’s doing. “Make a wish and blow it out.”
Reading him is impossible so I make a silent wish. That this game he’s playing—and he is playing a game—won’t cost me too much. I blow out the candle, and although I’ve lost my appetite, I pick up the small spoon and scoop up the custard, inhaling the soft scent of vanilla and letting it melt on my tongue. I put my spoon down.
“Don’t you like it?” he asks?
“It’s fine. Good, actually. I’m just not hungry anymore.”
“It’s my mom’s recipe.”
I look up at him and see a softening in the steel of his eyes, an edge of sadness. I’m surprised at his mentioning her. “Your mom is here? I thought she was at the other house.”
His face darkens, eyes harden. “She is. She’s safest there. Our cook makes her recipes.”
“Isn’t she safest here? Protected by her big, strong sons?” I make a point of looking around the room. “Where is your brother anyway?”
“To answer your first question, her life needs as little complication and disruption as possible. The Ravello house is secluded and best for that.”
I study him. It’s one of the rare occasions he’s giving me something. Sharing something of his life.
“She thinks your sister is still alive,” I say.
“And my father.”
I don’t know how I should feel about this. Happy that my enemy is suffering? I don’t feel happy. I feel the opposite. “I’m sorry. That has to be hard.”
His forehead is furrowed, that line between his brows deepening. But he doesn’t acknowledge my comment. Instead, when he shifts his gaze back to mine, it’s intent. Focused like a laser. “A year of your life is missing, Dandelion.”
My heart thuds against my chest at this sudden change of topic. I’m taken aback, and from the look on his face, it shows.
“When you were just shy of fifteen. You disappeared from school. Disappeared from the world. No charity events. No family photos. Nothing. Then you reappeared a little over a year later, slipping back into your life as if nothing had happened at all.”