Page 7 of Mafia Kings: Valentino

I got out, a little clumsy from my nervousness. As the Mercedes drove off, the man led me up to the bronze doors.

A couple of other guys in identical black suits were lounging around the entrance. If they were mafia, they looked more like they were on a smoke break than keeping guard.

My guide directed me into the house. It was even more amazing on the inside, with thick Persian rugs, crystal chandeliers, and old artwork on the walls.

He led me through a maze of hallways until he pushed back a swinging door to the kitchen –

And what a kitchen it was! There were ancient stone walls, yes, but also marble countertops, an absolutely gigantic islandfilled with two dozen bowls and glass jars, and lots of sleek, modern appliances.

I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

A woman stood next to the island, looking at a sheet of paper in her hand. She was tall and imposing in a black dress, and her curly grey hair reached to her shoulders. She looked over at the sound of the door.

“Signora Lombardi,” the man greeted her.

“Thank you, Benvenuto,” she replied. “You may go.”

He nodded, then walked out the door we’d come in through.

“So,” Signora Lombardi said, “you must be Caterina.”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

“A local girl,” she said – not a question but a statement of fact.

“Yes, ma’am. I live in Florence, but I’m from Castelfiorentino.”

She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, which I realized was a printout of my résumé. “I’m not familiar with this restaurant you work at.”

“Um… it’s a touristy kind of place.”

“I see.” She sounded the slightest bit contemptuous. “Well, all that really matters is whether you can cook, and I’ll be the judge of that. Here you can see we have bowls full of various ingredients.”

I stepped closer so I could see into the bowls. They were all filled with different things: eggs, flour, onions, garlic, tomatoes, strawberries, lemons, spinach, basil, fennel, spinach, and many other things. There were glass jars filled with dry pasta – long spaghetti, spiral fusilli, and bowtie farfalle, just to name a few. Small bowls had anise, cloves, and other spices. There was a glass pitcher filled with milk and an unlabeled green bottle of olive oil. Salt and pepper shakers made of crystal sat off to the side. Two bottles of wine – one red, one white. And onbig marble platters were several different types of cheese – parmesan and ricotta, in particular – and a soft hunk of butter as big as my fist.

“On your résumé, you indicated you could cook over two hundred dishes by memory,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. My nonna taught me.”

“Well, you have two hours to cook whatever you like using these ingredients andonlythese ingredients.”

I looked at her in surprise. “You wantmeto choose?”

She seemed to take my reaction as being unhappy –

When in fact I was overjoyed.

I get to cook in THIS kitchen?!

And whatever I WANT?!

Every day at work, I fixed the same damn thing: marinara sauce with meat. You couldn’t even really call it cooking since I used sauce out of jars. The only thing I did was sauté onions and garlic, combine it with the meat sauce in giant pots, then boil hundreds of pounds of pasta.

“Yes, I want you to choose,” Signora Lombardi said with a hint of annoyance. “If that distresses you, you can exit the interview now if you wish.”

“No, ma’am!” I said happily.

With two hours, I figured I could make a whole meal to knock her socks off.

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