Page 33 of His Passerotta

I shut off the stove burner when he comes up behind me, his stare sending my back up in flames, and lift the pan before turning to show him.

“Before you say anything, smell?—”

A gasp pulls from deep in my lungs when I lock eyes with a man who isn’t Anthony, and the pan slips through my fingers. I try to catch it on impulse but only succeed in burning my palm.

“Shit,” I screech, letting the pan fall, sending butter chicken sauce splatting all over the floor.

When the stranger comes up to me, I cower backward, bumping into the stove but thankfully not burning myself a second time.

Who is this?

Why is he here?

Did Anthony send him?

The man takes my hand and guides me to the sink before turning on the faucet to cool the burn. The water is nice, and I’d probably be sighing with relief if I wasn’t so terrified.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His voice scares me. It’s deep and even, nearly monotone and slices through the air. It makes his apology sound sinister. I peek at him, and the first thing that stands out to me is a scar that runs over his eye.

My gaze quickly darts away, and I don’t respond to him. I don’t know what to say.

Does he know who I am, why I’m here?

Should I play it cool?

He walks to the TV remote to turn the music down while I take the opportunity to search for the knife I used to slice the chicken. It cut clean, like Anthony sharpened it yesterday.

The man turns to face me before I can act.

“How’s your hand?”

I turn off the water before inspecting my palm. It’s red, but no blisters have formed. “Um, fine.”

“I was hoping to find my brother here… I didn’t realize he had a guest.”

“Anthony?”

It’s a stupid question, but he gives a polite nod anyway.

“Oh, he… He isn’t here.”

Again, he nods. My responses are somehow getting even dumber.

When my brain registers that the man isn’t here for me, a big burst of fear leaves my chest, and I’m somewhat able to think.

He isn’t here for me.

I need to play it cool.

“Do you have a key?” I ask, glancing at his hands as if he’d still be holding it. “I thought the door was locked.”

“I do. Normally, I wouldn’t barge in his home like this, but I assumed no one heard my knock over the music.” He gestures to the TV.

He knocked?

No. He’s lying. Even distracted, I would’ve heard knocking.

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