Page 1 of Blood Orange Christmas
1
PROLOGUE
SERENA
The driver drops me at a private gate outside Milan, where I’ve been hired for a one-week contract as a private chef. It’s supposed to be simple. Cook, collect my pay, and go home with a little more experience on my résumé. The villa isn’t mine to admire, but when the guard waves me through and I step into the service corridor, I can already smell polished stone, citrus from the garden, and understated wealth. I’ve heard whispers about the owner—an Accardi property, though no one ever says which Accardi. They are a powerful, old-money Italian crime dynasty that straddles both Milan’s elite social circles and the darker networks that keep them funded. Rumor has it this one prefers his privacy, that his dinners are private, and that staff don’t last long if they forget the first rule—never ask questions.
I roll my suitcase to the kitchen and stop because, for a second, I forget how to move. Everything gleams. The range looks like it was forged for a small army, the copper pans are polished enough to double as mirrors, and the counters are slabs of cool stone wide enough to roll pasta for twenty. There’s a window that faces a garden where lemon trees sit in clay pots, and I can feel the room waiting to see if I’m worth its time.
This is the best kitchen I have ever touched.
A woman with a clipboard appears, checks my name against her list, and tells me the rules. No photos, no gossip, no wandering. Staff breakfast at eight, owner’s dinner at nine, and under no circumstances is the owner kept waiting.
“I don’t keep ovens waiting either,” I say, and she gives me a look that suggests she might allow me to live.
She disappears, and the kitchen is mine. I slide my knives out of their roll and line them in a clean row. I wash my hands twice, because it helps settle my nerves, and open the walk-in. The cold hits my face and brings me back to center. There is fish packed in ice, fennel with frilled tops, crates of citrus, and a tray of eggs arranged in a neat pyramid. Whoever ordered groceries knows what they’re doing. I take it as a challenge.
I start a soffritto because it puts a spine in the day. Onion, celery, carrot, all in even dice. Olive oil warms in a heavy pot. The first sizzle says hello, and I breathe easier. While it softens, I score the skin on a sea bass and pat it dry. Salt goes on with generosity, not fear. Tomatoes move into the oven with garlic and a few sprigs of thyme. I make myself slow down just enough to taste each step, the way Nonna always made me do, and I hum to keep my hands steady. A shadow shifts at the doorway. I don’t look up. Kitchens teach you that if it matters, it will wait for the right moment. “Did you make this sauce?”
The voice is a low baritone, smooth and unhurried and uninterested in impressing anyone, which is how you know it usually does. I turn and see a man in a dark suit with the top button of his shirt open. He’s tall and still in that way that makes other people fill silences for him. His hair is dark with a trace of silver at the temples, and his face is cut by a straight nose and ajaw that looks like it has never lost an argument. He takes in the room in one sweep, then looks at me with steady interest, as if he expects competence and plans to be annoyed if he doesn’t find it.
“It isn’t finished,” I say, “but yes.”
He steps closer and stops at the island, not touching anything, as if he knows better than to put his hands where they don’t belong. “It tastes like something worth remembering.”
“Good,” I say, because my mouth works even when my pulse trips. “Forgettable food offends me.”
The edge of his mouth moves. It isn’t a smile, but it could be if you gave it a reason. He glances at the fish and at the pasta flour I’ve set out and then back at me. “You’re the chef.”
“Private chef, temporary contract, one week.” I nod. “Serena Bellini.”
He responds with a nod. “Dante.” The reply is very brief, perhaps intentionally so. “Nine o’clock,” he says. “I prefer dinner without conversation.”
“That depends on whether the food talks,” I say, and he lets the thought hang as if he might come back to it later.
He leaves without another word. The door closes. The pot asks for attention with a soft burble, and I give it what it wants. The room feels warmer, but that might just be the blood under my skin.
Staff drift in before eight. I feed them frittata with roasted peppers, thick bread rubbed with garlic and olive oil, and espresso that could revive a saint. The house manager—Bianchi, late fifties, tie too tight—accepts a plate, says nothing, and eats every bite. The dishwasher is a lanky guy with a paper cranetattoo behind his ear and a nervous laugh. He thanks me twice. The clipboard woman takes coffee black and calls the food “satisfactory”, which is a compliment in houses like this.
When they go, I plan. The owner eats alone at nine, and I want the kind of dinner that makes a person sit forward without noticing they’ve done it. I sketch a menu that leans into the season without showing off. Anchovies in citrus with shaved fennel. Calamari seared fast with capers and lemon. Fresh pasta cut by hand and finished with ragu that has simmered so long it forgets it was once sharp. Sea bass with blood orange and olives. Bitter greens with salt and heat. A small lemon cake, because my hands know it in the dark.
Bianchi reads the list and nods once. “He doesn’t like cream sauces,” he says. “He notices when fish is overcooked.”
“He won’t have to,” I say.
“He doesn’t like to wait.”
“Neither do I,” I say, and I mean it.
The day settles into work. I roast tomatoes until the skins blister and slip. I fold lemon zest into flour and egg yolks until the dough is smooth and springy. I run it through the machine, then lay it under a cotton cloth to rest because impatience makes tough pasta. I taste the ragu at intervals and adjust the salt as it deepens. The sea bass waits on a tray with its skin scored and patted dry. I move in a rhythm that is part ritual and part checklist, and the kitchen accepts me because I treat it like a partner, not a stage.
I prep the anchovies last, because they’re happiest when they don’t sit long in acid. I shave the fennel paper-thin and toss it with lemon, oil, and a little salt, then chill the plate so the citrusstays bright. I pull the cake from the oven and brush it with a warm syrup of lemon juice and sugar. The scent lifts the corners of my mouth without my permission.
Nine comes close. I put a white jacket over my black tee, tie my hair again, and clean the station down to the last crumb. I set up the first plate and take a breath that is not dramatic, just useful. When I look up, he is again at the door, as if he never really left.
“You’re early,” I say, because he is.
“I am on time,” he answers, which is technically true and not at all the point. He steps in, slower this time, and it feels less like an inspection and more like curiosity he doesn’t want to admit to.
