Page 85 of Velvet Cruelty

I shouldn’t know how to cook. Mom didn’t like my interest in food any more than she liked me singing, but whenever she was gone, I hung around Zia Teresa in the kitchen. Zia could make any cuisine under the sun, but when it was just the two of us, we only cooked Italian. The meals she grew up with and loved. Zia showed me how to cut spaghetti and fettuccini, to roll gnocchi, to fold ravioli parcels full of parsley and fresh ricotta. We made alfredo and carbonara and cannelloni though most of the dishes didn’t have real names.

“What do you call this?” I would ask of a thick soup of spinach and rice.

“It’s spinach and rice,” Zia would say.

“But what is it in Italian?”

She would roll her eyes. “Spinaci e riso.”

While mom was away getting her eyelids done, Zia Teresa focused my studies on desserts, tiramisu and profiteroles and continental cake. When mom returned and I was back on a diet of kale and grilled chicken, I dreamed about mascarpone cream.

In the eighth grade I wanted to run away and become a chef. As I got older, I imagined cooking for Mr. Parker, making him so happy with my food he would let Zia Teresa move in with us. Then she and I could hang out in my kitchen and we could talk and make trays of lasagne and sugar-dusted biscotti. As I skim the fat from the surface of my broth, I hope with all my heart Zia Teresa knows I’m alive and well and making brodo.

“Hey, Tits.”

I jolt, my spatula flying out of my hand. Doc leans against the clean counter, smirking at me.

“Doc! You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, looking around the spotless kitchen. “What’s with the cleaning? Are you broken?”

His T-shirt is baby blue today. The color makes his eyes a million times prettier. I wipe my hands on my dress. All day I’ve tried not to ruin it, but I’m already covered in grime and my hair is a mess.

That doesn’t matter, I remind myself. You want to be a servant.

Doc folds his tattooed arms across his chest. “Is there a reason you’re playing housewife?”

“I just felt like doing something.”

“I don’t know if anyone told you, rich girl, but we have a gym. We have a pool. You don’t have to do Mrs. Hughes’ cosplay.”

I don’t know who that is, but I can tell Doc’s making fun of me. That even after last night, he still hates me. “I can’t help being a Whitehall any more than you can help being where you’re from. And I’m not trying to suck up to you guys, I just like cleaning.”

Doc hauls himself onto the counter. “Fair enough, Tits.” He looks me up and down. “You know, if you want to be our little maid, I can get you a uniform.”

I know he means a frilly apron and high heels. Stripper clothes. “No thank you.” I pick up my vegetable knife and return to my carrots. “How was your day?”

“Why?”

God, what is his problem? “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” He shifts closer to me. “How about we talk about what me and Bobby did to you last night?”

I shave a tiny piece of skin off a carrot, refusing to look at him.

“You sigh, you know,” he says conversationally. “Whenever anyone kisses you. At first, I thought you were putting it on, but you’re just that horny, aren’t you?”

I ignore him, peeling another strip of skin from my carrot.

He shifts closer again. “Remember, Tesorina? Remember how I kissed you?”

All too well. His mouth soft and lazy on mine, the taste of liquor and rain and fresh cigarettes.

“It was a good kiss,” Doc says with a grin. “Don’t you agree?”

I bend my head, letting my sweaty hair swing between us. It was a perfect kiss, but that doesn’t make it any easier to peel vegetables. Doc has probably kissed a thousand girls. He doesn’t care about me.

“Gonna ignore me, Tits? After that nice orgasm I gave you?”

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