Chapter 2 - The Taste of Carbonara
The kitchen of the Rinaldi manor was a chef's dream: brushed stainless-steel Wolf ranges, hanging copper cookware, and cold slab marble counters.
Within fifteen minutes of entering the kitchen, I had transformed the war zone into a bustling culinary workshop. I pulled four wooden step stools up to the prep island, tied white linen aprons around Marco and Sofia, and handed Matteo a wooden whisk.
"The secret to a real Roman carbonara isn't cream," I explained, showing Marco how to whisk egg yolks with freshly grated Pecorino Romano and cracked black pepper until it formed a thick, golden cream. "It's the pasta water. The starchy water binds the cheese so it turns into silk without scrambling."
Marco tried to look bored, but the pride on his eight-year-old face was undeniable as he whisked the golden mixture.
Sofia carefully arranged sliced strawberries onto a silver platter, while Matteo giggled as he pinched bits of browned, crispy pancetta from the skillet, popping them into his mouth.
In the corner, quiet Nico approached the counter, his small fingers resting on my sleeve.
"Can I stir the noodles, Miss Serena?" he asked softly.
"You're the head chef, Nico," I smiled, lifting him onto a stool and guiding his little hands with the wooden tongs.
Standing in the shadow of the doorway, holding a glass of untouched Chianti, Victor Rinaldi watched the scene in complete, stunned silence. For three years, his home had echoed with grief, broken plates, and hostile screaming. The children had refused every hot meal, throwing pre-packaged gourmet catering against the walls to punish their father for their mother’s absence.
Now, the kitchen was filled with the rich, comforting aroma of roasted garlic, sizzling pancetta, and the sweet, melodic laughter of his children.
At 7:48 PM—twelve minutes before the deadline—all four children were seated at the dining table on clean embroidered placemats.
The plates were empty within twenty minutes. Marco wiped his mouth with a napkin, looking up at me with guarded respect.
"It wasn't terrible," Marco muttered, trying to maintain his tough-guy facade.
Sofia hopped off her chair, running over and wrapping her arms tightly around my legs. "Stay, Miss Serena! Please don't let Daddy send you away!"
Victor walked into the dining room, setting his wine glass onto the sideboard. He looked at his four well-fed, calm children, then turned his intense, penetrating gaze onto me.
"Mrs. Gable," Victor commanded quietly. "Prepare the master nanny suite on the second floor. Miss Valente starts immediately."
He turned to me, his voice dropping into a low, uncompromising tone. "Double the agency's salary. Full private health benefits. And whatever you need to bring your daughter here tomorrow morning."
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. "You know about Lucia?"
"I don't hire people without knowing everything about them, Serena," Victor replied, his dark eyes softening with a flicker of unspoken respect. "Bring your daughter home. This house has plenty of room."
