Chapter 9: The Last Piece She Left Me
I went back to Bellavita the next morning as though it were an ordinary Tuesday.
Marco was already at his station when I arrived.
He met my eyes for half a second across the kitchen.
Nothing more.
We had agreed on the phone before I slept: behave exactly as before.
Don't acknowledge each other differently.
Wait.
Luca came in at eleven.
He did a full walk-through of the kitchen, the way he always did before a De Luca-adjacent evening, checking equipment and speaking briefly with Chef Ricci's temporary replacement — Ricci had called in ill.
When Luca passed me, he stopped.
"You came back," he said.
His voice was easy.
Pleasant, almost.
"I work here," I said, and turned back to my prep work.
He watched me for a moment.
I kept my hands moving.
Garlic, lemon, white wine.
My mother's order.
"Smart girl," he said, and walked away.
My hands didn't shake until he was through the kitchen door.
At two o'clock, during the break between lunch and dinner service, I went to the small staff bathroom at the back of the building, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the sink to read a message from Sal.
*Dominic made contact with Luca at 9 a.m.
Eleven-minute call.
We have it.
Matteo's attorney is moving.
Be ready for tonight.*
I put the phone in my pocket and looked at myself in the mirror for a long moment.
My mother had stood in kitchens like this one for eleven years after she left Cicero.
She had cooked and served and kept her silence, protecting a secret and protecting me.
She had taught me a recipe not just because she loved it, but because she needed the evidence hidden inside the notebook to stay close to someone she trusted.
She needed me to carry it without knowing I was carrying it.
She had protected me by making me part of the only plan she had.
I unlocked the bathroom door and went back to the kitchen.
Dinner service started at six.
At six-forty, Sal arrived as a guest, seated alone at a corner table, ordering slowly.
At seven-fifteen, two men I didn't recognize came in and sat at the bar.
At seven-thirty, a woman in a gray coat took the table nearest the kitchen door and ordered a glass of wine she didn't drink.
At eight o'clock, Matteo walked in.
Not as a guest.
He walked straight through the dining room without being seated, directly to the kitchen, and he pushed the door open wide enough that the entire dining room could see what happened next.
Luca was two steps behind him.
Matteo stopped in the center of the kitchen.
The cooking staff backed toward the walls without being told to.
"Luca," Matteo said.
His voice carried without effort.
"The recording that Chef Ricci provided to my attorney last night has been reviewed.
The photograph has been authenticated.
And the eleven-minute call you made to Dominic Caruso this morning has been transcribed."
Luca's expression didn't break immediately.
He took one breath.
"Whatever Ricci told you—"
"Don't." Matteo said the single word and the kitchen went completely silent.
"You were in this kitchen before service two nights ago.
You added a substance to the finishing oil.
The specialist's report has been signed and submitted.
There are four witnesses to your movements that evening, including one who has already provided a formal statement."
Luca's gaze moved across the kitchen.
It found Marco.
It stayed there for one second.
Marco didn't look away.
"You want to make a phone call," Matteo said.
"You're thinking that if you can reach Dominic, he can manage this.
He's managed everything else." He stepped closer.
"Dominic Caruso was taken into custody at his home at seven this morning.
His attorney has already indicated he will not be providing character testimony on your behalf."
Luca's face, at last, changed.
"Seventeen years ago," Matteo said, quietly now, almost private, "a woman named Isabella Rossi saw exactly what you were and tried to tell me.
I didn't listen.
She paid for that with eleven years of fear and a daughter who grew up without knowing why." He paused.
"Her daughter cooked the dish that brought you back into this room.
I don't think Isabella would call that coincidence."
Luca said nothing.
The two men from the bar appeared in the kitchen doorway.
They showed credentials I couldn't read from where I stood.
Luca looked at Matteo one last time.
"You'll never hold all of it," he said.
"There are things in place that you don't know about.
Things that—"
"I know about all of it," Matteo said.
"We've been inside your communications for seventy-two hours."
May you like
Luca went quiet.
He was still quiet when they walked him out through the kitchen door, past the dining room, and into the night.
