Chapter 2 The Medicine

[Chloe]

Six chrome burners stared at me. Two ovens sat beneath them. The fridge was large enough to hold a Fiat.

I stood in the center of the kitchen. I felt small. Intruder alert.

"Quick meal," I whispered. "Cook. Clean. Vanish."

I opened the pantry. Truffle oil sat next to saffron. Aged balsamic vinegar lined the shelves.

"Rich food," I muttered. "Fancy dust."

I pushed the expensive jars aside. I found a bag of Arborio rice. Chicken stock. A block of parmesan cheese.

Simple. Risotto. Warm. Heavy. A hug in a bowl.

I tied an apron around my waist. The strings were too short. It did not close in the back.

"Story of my life," I sighed. "One size fits none."

I chopped an onion. The knife hit the board. Rhythm calmed me. Chop. Chop. Chop.

I forgot the gun. I forgot the broken vase. I forgot my negative bank balance.

Onions hit the pan. Butter sizzled. The smell filled the air. Safety.

I stirred the rice. I added wine. I hummed a tune. Nonna used to sing it.

I was in the zone. My hips swayed. I did a shimmy.

"Shake the risotto," I whispered. "Shake the booty."

I grabbed a spoon. Broth needed salt.

I reached for the cellar. My elbow hit the olive oil bottle.

It tipped.

I gasped. My foot kicked out to catch it. Missed.

Plastic hit the floor. It did not break. The cap popped off. Oil glugged onto the white tile.

"No."

I dropped to my knees. Paper towels. I needed paper towels. I started to scrub.

"Disaster," I hissed. "Walking hazard. Wrap me in bubble wrap."

A sound came from the doorway.

The air shifted.

I froze. My hands were on the floor. My rear end was in the air.

I turned my head.

He was there.

Lorenzo leaned against the doorframe. Jacket gone. White shirt unbuttoned at the top. Sleeves rolled up.

He looked lethal.

He stared at me. He stared at the oil.

"What," he said. His voice was gravel. "Are you doing?"

I scrambled up. My sneakers slipped on the oil. Arms flailed. I grabbed the granite counter.

"Cleaning," I squeaked. "Stubborn spot."

He looked at the slick. He looked at the pot.

He stepped forward. He sniffed.

"You are cooking."

"Yes. Going-away present. Before I vanish. Like a ninja."

No smile. He stalked toward me. A predator.

"I gave no permission."

"I know. Sorry. You looked hungry."

He stopped. He was close. Whiskey and rain filled my nose.

He looked down. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.

"Hungry," he repeated. It sounded like a curse.

[Lorenzo]

Butter. Onions. Chicken stock.

The smell hit me in the hall. It cut through the nausea.

I had spent an hour on the office floor. Cramps twisted my stomach. My body screamed for fuel. My mind refused it.

Food meant poison. I saw Vanessa. I saw the white powder in the wine. I felt paralysis. I saw Marco.

Eating made me vulnerable.

But this smell was different. Not a chef’s masterpiece. It smelled like home.

I followed it. I found her.

Chloe. The clumsy maid.

She was on the floor. Scrubbing oil. Curves on display. She scrambled up. She almost fell.

Chaos. Mess.

"I thought you looked hungry," she said.

Anger spiked. Pity was an insult.

"I am not hungry," I lied.

My stomach growled. A loud, angry roar. It echoed off the stainless steel.

Chloe bit her lip. She looked away. She fought a smile.

"Right," she mumbled. "Not hungry. Tiger in the room."

I glared.

"Silence."

I walked to the stove. Steam rose from the pot. Creamy white rice bubbles popped.

My mouth watered. Painful. I gripped the counter.

"What is it?"

"Risotto," she said. "Parmesan. Herbs. Almost done."

She picked up a wooden spoon. She stirred.

"Here. Taste."

She held the spoon out.

I recoiled.

I Poison.

The thought was automatic. She was a stranger. She was in my house.

"I do not eat food from strangers."

Chloe blinked. She lowered the spoon.

"Oh. Stranger danger."

She shrugged. She put the spoon in her mouth. She closed her eyes.

"Mmm. Perfect. Maybe pepper."

I watched her swallow.

I watched her throat. I watched her eyes.

She did not choke. She did not die. She looked happy.

"See?" she said. "Edible. Unless you are allergic to joy."

She grabbed a bowl. She ladled a portion. She placed it on the counter. Clean spoon.

"Eat," she commanded.

No one commanded me.

"Do not order me."

"Suggestion then. Before you pass out. My floor is clean."

I looked at the bowl. Hunger crushed me. A physical weight.

I picked up the spoon. My hand trembled. 

I hoped she missed it.

I took a bite.

Flavor exploded. Salt. Cream. Warmth.

It was honest.

I swallowed. Warmth hit my chest. The cramp eased.

I took another bite. Another.

I ate fast. I could not stop. The bowl was empty in minutes.

The fog lifted. Pain receded.

I set the spoon down. I took a breath.

Chloe watched me. She chewed her thumbnail.

"Okay?" she asked.

"Adequate."

Shoulders slumped.

"Adequate. High praise."

She untied the apron. She wiped her hands on her jeans.

"Fed the beast. I go now."

She turned to the door.

Panic spiked. Cold and sharp.

If she left, hunger returned. Starvation returned. Weakness returned.

I could not be weak. I had to kill Marco.

I needed the food.

I needed her.

"Stop."

Chloe froze.

"I am leaving. You asked."

"You are not leaving."

I blocked her path. I towered over her.

She looked up. Fear was there. Defiance too.

"Make up your mind," she mumbled. "Fire. Hire. Whiplash."

"Rehired."

She blinked.

"Really?"

"Yes. Not a maid. You are useless as a maid. You break things."

"Hey."

"Personal chef. You cook every meal. You taste every dish in front of me."

She frowned. Head tilted.

"Why taste it?"

"Trust is earned," I said. "You could be a spy. You could poison me."

She laughed. A short sound.

"Spy? Me? I tripped on a shadow. I cannot spy on my feet."

"Disguises deceive."

I stepped closer. Intimidation was a tool. I used it.

"You live here. Staff quarters. You do not leave the estate."

"Prison," she whispered.

"Employment. High pay."

I named the figure. Three times a standard salary.

Her eyes widened. Calculation happened. Insulin. Rent.

"Okay," she said. Voice small. "I accept."

"Good."

I looked at her. Messy. Smelled of onions. Soft. Light.

I hated it.

"Go to your room," I ordered. "0600 hours."

She nodded. She scurried past. She avoided the oil.

"Night, Boss," she mumbled. "Do not dream of murder."

She did a happy dance in the hall. A wiggle of excitement.

She disappeared.

I stood alone. I looked at the empty bowl.

I felt full.

I felt danger.

I had let a woman in. She made me feel human.

Humanity was a weakness.