Page 60 of His Two Hidden Masks

“Good morning,” I said, opening the heavy wooden door. The kitchen was dark, my voice echoed through the empty room. In the quiet of the morning, this space transformed into my Bella Baci workshop.

In a few hours, Auntie Aurora would arrive to prep for the evening with Vincenzo, the sous chef. I knew Auntie was disappointed I decided not to cook with her full-time when I had the chance after graduation, but she understood.

The Andiamo was tied to Mia Sorella and Roberto. I wanted to support my family, but from a distance. My Bella Baci used the Andiamo kitchen for now, but it was clear I needed to come up with another plan after Carnival.

I buttoned up my white chef’s coat, and laid out my ingredients on the Carrara marble counter. Butter, cane sugar, cocoa, vanilla, heavy cream, sea salt, and small bottles of infused flavor had been prepping since the wedding. I had glass jars of simple syrup infused with vanilla, jalapeño, Earl Grey, lavender, lemon verbena, mandarin, raspberry, and rosemary. It looked like a witch’s apothecary, and I loved it.

I wound my ponytail into a bun to keep my wavy hair in place. “Time to make magic,” I said, and clapped my hands. Thegas stove clicked on, the spark of the flame sending my heart racing.

I dropped cubes of butter into a big copper pot. As the butter melted, I stirred, adding the sugar and testing for the slight resistance in the mix that signaled the heat was too high. I didn’t want the ingredients to catch and burn.

I used a wooden spoon that Auntie Aurora gave when I graduated from culinary school. She was the most supportive of my decision to switch my major when I’d realized medicine was not my calling. The handle worn, this spoon was polished by years of use.

I stayed close to the pot while I stirred, the heat warming me in my core. The smell of the sugar as it melted into the butter filled the kitchen. I lowered the heat and poured in the heavy cream, constantly stirring and watching the temperature to keep the milk from curdling.

I sourced my ingredients from Tuscany. Everything local, all Italian, all touched with love. My parents had so much pride in our region, but they hadn’t figured out how much staying local and eating high quality ingredients mattered to the tourists year after year.

I stirred the pot, watching as the color of the mix melted into a perfect golden brown. Sweat gathered on my brow as the first signs of a boil bubbled to the surface. I counted the beat of the bubbles, looking for both the right size and rhythm.

Working with sugar, the line between boiling and burning was incredibly thin. I raised my wooden spoon in the air, timing the caramel drip as it stretched into a perfect line.

Time was of the essence, so I moved swiftly, pouring the caramels into the silicon molds. The secret was to move not too fast, and not too slow. Hitting my mark felt so satisfying.

I finished four batches of caramel, and was almost done with the fifth, when I heard the rush of the kitchen door that led into the restaurant open and close behind me.

“Is it nine a.m. already, Auntie Aurora?” I said.

“Bella.” A voice sliced through the room like a knife through soft butter.

I stiffened. Roberto. “Fuck.” I gasped and dropped my prized wooden spoon into the pot. “Fucking hell.” I lunged to pick it up, only to fail and watch it sink. “I’m busy, Roberto.”

I heard him exhale, his irritation only pissing me off more, as I scrambled to find a set of tongs. This near-boiling mixture would catch and ruin if I didn’t keep stirring, or worse, taste of charred wood.

I grabbed a pair of tongs, fumbling with them as Roberto strode across the room. I glanced back to see him standing behind me. He wore a dark suit, a grey shirt, and a black tie. His eyes shadowed and expression dour, he looked like he was preparing to attend a funeral against his will.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a chef,” I said.

“You aren’t a chef,” he said. “You make candy.”

I ignored him and continued digging for the spoon. What an asshole. The tongs were not cutting it. Fuck it, I thought, picking up another spoon to stir and feeling the wooden one stuck to the bottom.

“I am surprised to see you up so early,” he said.

He was clearly insinuating something. Was he spying on me now? My temper flared as I bumped against the lost spoon wedged at the bottom of the pot. I couldn’t stir properly. I blew a loose hair off my forehead.

“When I sleep and when I rise are no longer your concern,” I said, my back to him. Victory, I got the wedged spoon to move. I lifted it high, grabbed it with the tongs, and resumed stirring.

“It’s not my concern, as long as your behavior does not impact our business.”

Well, holy hell. I pushed my back-up spoon deep into the pot and felt the telltale catch of burned sauce sticking to the bottom of the pan.

“Double damn.” I cursed myself for being sloppy and letting Roberto rattle me. “It’s burned.” I moved the pot off the hot burner and turned off the gas. “What do you want, Roberto?”

He leaned against the marble countertop, arms crossed. “I am surprised you are still bothering with this little hobby of yours. You heard your father. The company doesn’t need this…”

“I do not need you to act as a translator,” I said. “I heard my father.”

“Bella, we may not be together anymore, but I hate to see you being set up to fail.”

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