by Jayne Castel
***
Sabrina tied on an apron and forced herself to stop smiling.
Adriano Bellini was ruder than she’d anticipated, but luckily the restaurant manager had turned into her ally. Now, she had an evening to show herself to be worthy of hiring.
I can’t mess this up.
Sabrina tied back her hair and made her way over to the hand basin in the corner of the kitchen. Around her, men chopped vegetables, rolled out pasta, and worked over gas hobs. It was pandemonium; controlled chaos like Rome’s streets themselves.
Sabrina washed her hands. Then, as she dried them, she looked toward the far end of the kitchen, where Adriano Bellini was talking to Daniele about something. Her gaze lingered on him. Even dressed in the ubiquitous checked pants and white chef’s shirt, this man was sexy. The video she’d seen of him had failed to truly reveal his charisma, his presence. He was tall and athletically built. His hair was short, emphasizing his high cheekbones and the patrician lines of his face. His eyes were intense, the color of chocolate.
She watched his tanned forearms flex as he slammed a tray of lamb dressed in garlic and rosemary into one of the huge ovens at the back of the kitchen. He may have lacked manners, but she hadn’t expected to find him so hot. It was hard to tear her gaze from him.
Adriano Bellini swiveled then. Catching Sabrina watching him, he strode over to her.
“Standing around won’t get the work done.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and steered her toward a steel benchtop where a massive bowl of onions awaited. “We need three kilos of these chopped.”
Not awaiting a response from her, he walked off, shouting orders to his team as he went. Sabrina cast a dark look at his retreating back. Helen Bellini hadn’t been wrong in her description of her husband.
Rolling up her sleeves, she picked up the first onion. Five minutes later, eyes streaming, she was silently cursing Helen Bellini, this restaurant, and the tyrant who ran it. Half an hour later, she never wanted to set eyes on another onion again as long as she lived.
Sabrina felt ready to collapse. Her shift was passing in a blur. After hours of prep-work, she was now washing dishes—a foul task that made her wish she was still chopping onions. The dirty dishes were endless, although the plates of food the chefs churned out for the diners looked and smelled amazing; Chef Bellini had clearly earned his stars.
The kitchen was a furnace, a pressure-cooker of male egos and quick tempers. Adriano Bellini came and went during the night, leaving Daniele to run the show. However, whenever he was there, nothing escaped him. Fortunately, he left Sabrina alone for the rest of the evening. Instead, one of the sous-chefs, a young man named Alfio, drew his attention.
Alfio, who seemed to be moving at a much slower pace than the other chefs, couldn’t do anything right. He over-cooked the fish. He under-cooked the chicken. He slopped pasta sauce over the rims of the bowls. Daniele had already lost his temper with him twice when Alfio committed the unforgiveable—in an Italian restaurant—he overcooked a dish of pasta.
It was Alfio’s bad luck that Adriano Bellini happened to be in the kitchen when the offending dish reached the pass.
“Look at this.” Adriano’s tone was almost casual as he placed the plate of congealing spaghetti alla gricia down in front of the young man. “Would you serve that up to your girlfriend?”
Alfio swallowed, his gaze fixing upon the offending dish. After a lengthy pause, he answered. “No, chef.”
“Of course you wouldn’t … she’d leave you if you did.”
“Sorry, chef. I forgot to use the timer.”
“I don’t want your excuses,” Adriano replied coolly. “One more dish like this, and you’re out.”
Alfio nodded vigorously, his brow gleaming with sweat. He clearly wasn’t coping with the high-pressure environment and Sabrina couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. If Adriano Bellini had been the kind of man to shout at his employees, like Gordon Ramsay, he would have been less intimidating. Instead, his anger was cold, understated—and terrifying. Sabrina was relieved when he left the kitchen in Daniele’s hands once more, and went out to greet some friends who had booked a table for dinner.
Finally, the restaurant emptied. A few diners lingered at their tables, chatting over their espresso coffees or digestivi— little shots of liqueur that aided digestion after a large meal.
Sabrina slid the dishwasher door shut and switched it on for its final cycle. She felt so tired, she was amazed that she was able to remain on her feet. At the same time, she also felt an odd sense of elation.
Her back ached, her feet throbbed, and her eyes still burned from onion and dishwasher detergent fumes but she’d done it—she’d lasted the shift without disgracing herself.
Daniele flashed her a flirtatious smile as she removed her apron. “You did well. You’re a hard worker.”
She smiled back. “Thanks.” She knew Daniele was the manager here, but it seemed that Adriano still called the shots. She just hoped she'd proved her usefulness to the boss.
A moment later, the man himself emerged from the back of the restaurant. Adriano had changed into jeans, t-shirt, and a leather jacket. The transformation made Sabrina stare. He wore his jeans well; they molded to him without being too tight—overly tight jeans were something she’d noticed a lot of Italian men seemed to go in for. Similarly, the t-shirt clung to his lean torso, and his leather jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He strode up to her, fixing her with an intense look that made her wilt slightly.
Adriano stopped before Sabrina, pinning her under his gaze. “Daniele says you did a good job,” he said flatly. He passed her an envelope. “That’s your pay for this evening.”
Sabrina held his gaze, feeling heat rise in her cheeks at the intense way he was looking at her. “Thanks.”
He regarded her for a moment longer before exhaling sharply. “Alright then. We’ll give you a chance. From tomorrow, you’re on a week’s trial as waitress. You can do the evening shift. From five o'clock until midnight with Mondays and Tuesdays off. When I’m not here, you’ll report to Daniele.”
Sabrina grinned, unable to hide her elation. “Thank you, Mr Bellini.”
“Call me Adriano,” he replied before stepping around her and heading for the door. “You're done for the night. Daniele will lock up.”
Sabrina nodded before waving to Daniele. “A domani!”
The young man winked before waving back. “See you tomorrow, bella!”
She then went outside, marveling at how balmy it was. The air in Brooklyn would have a bite to it at this hour. To the left of the restaurant, she saw Adriano Bellini put on his helmet and climb onto his scooter—a vintage, copper-colored Vespa. He then started the engine and kicked it forward off its stand. Sabrina watched him zoom away into the night.
I’ve got my work cut out there.
Sabrina crossed the square and made her way back to the studio apartment she had rented for the next month. Fortunately for her aching feet, the apartment was only three blocks away. She walked slowly, savoring the sultry evening.
I’m in Rome! After a busy shift, she’d almost forgotten. Now, as she walked the quiet backstreets, excitement hit her. She was half-Italian, and although what few relatives her mother had all lived in Turin, she felt as if she was discovering her roots. There was a sense of homecoming that Sabrina had felt the moment she stepped of the plane at Rome’s Fiumicino airport.
A few minutes later, she reached her building. There was no sound here, save the trickling of a nasone—one of the Rome’s old water fountains—resembling a fire hydrant, next to the entrance. Sabrina climbed the stone steps up to the second floor and let herself into her apartment.
Grinning, she closed the door and leaned back against it. She was exhausted but elated. She'd done it—only a week’s trial but it was a start. She’d found a way into Adriano Bellini’s life.
Chapter Three
The strains of an accordion playing in the street below drifted into Sabrina’s apartment
through the open window. She locked the door behind her and smiled; she never heard that sound from her Brooklyn studio. There was something magical about this city, as if it was somehow lost in time.
How wonderful would it be to live here instead of New York?
She glanced around the small apartment. Terracotta tiles covered the floor and the walls were a buttery yellow. A painting of a field of sunflowers hung over the sofa which doubled as a bed at night. A tiny, but clean and functional bathroom led off the space, and a small kitchenette sat against the far wall next to a table where Sabrina had set up her laptop. It was scarcely bigger than her Brooklyn apartment, but its high ceiling and tiled floor made it feel twice the size.
Sabrina loved the tiny studio she’d bought two years earlier. Her apartment was in a brownstone near Flatbush, in the heart of Brooklyn. She’d made the long, thin space feel more appealing by painting the walls a crisp white and decorating it with antique prints, a Persian rug, and furniture she’d picked up at a local flea market. Pots of herbs—rosemary, thyme and bay—grew on her window-ledge. Still, as lovely as it was, she’d have swapped her studio for this apartment in a heart-beat.
Sabrina unzipped her boots and kicked them off before collapsing onto the sofa. She wasn’t used to spending hours on her feet, and her legs and feet were letting her know.
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her smartphone and saw she’d gotten a text from her friend, Gina.
Are you there yet?!?
Sabrina smiled and quickly texted back. Yes, flew in last night. It’s amazing!
A moment later, her phone buzzed as another message arrived from her friend. Lucky bitch—I’m so jealous!
Sabrina gave a rueful shake of her head. She’d known Gina since junior high but her friend, who these days worked in a bookshop in Queens, still couldn’t get her head around what Sabrina actually did for a living. She seemed to think this was just a month-long vacation.
I wish.
Yawning, Sabrina checked the time. It was nearly one in the morning. New York was six hours behind, which meant it was around 7pm there. Her mom would have just finished having dinner. She’d promised her mother she would call as soon as she arrived but had been too tired last night, and too preoccupied today.
With a sigh of resignation, Sabrina called her mom.
Alicia Bennett answered on the second ring. “Hello.”
Even with one word, Sabrina could detect her mom’s tension. “Hi mamma, it’s me.”
“Sabrina … I was beginning to worry.”
Sabrina inhaled slowly. “Sorry, I didn’t call yesterday. I got in late and today’s been crazy.”
“Well, I’m sure you have been busy.”
The self-pity in her mother’s voice made Sabrina clench her jaw. Pushing down her irritation, she forced herself not to rise to the bait. “Have you had a good day?” she asked brightly.
“It’s been alright—a bit quiet.”
“Doesn’t Anna come round on Wednesdays?” Her mother’s friend from her bridge club usually visited for an afternoon coffee mid-week.
“Her daughter is visiting from Atlanta at the moment,” Alicia replied. “She’s too busy to see me.”
Her mom was even more negative than usual this evening, and Sabrina was too tired to appease her. A long pause drew out between them before Alicia attempted to show some interest in her daughter.
“So, how’s Rome?”
“As beautiful as I remember. I walked through Piazza Navona this morning. Do you remember when you, me, and dad sat outside in the square and ate gelato.”
“Ah si … che bello.” Alicia broke into Italian, her voice transforming. In an instant, her negativity dissolved, and the woman Sabrina remembered from her childhood returned. Alicia Bennett had once been Alicia Rossi, a young girl from Turin who had come to New York to work thirty years earlier and never left. She had always retained strong links to her homeland and had taken care to ensure her only child grew up bilingual.
“I can still remember the detail and color of the Sistine Chapel.” Her mom’s voice turned wistful. “Make sure you visit it again while you’re there.”
Sabrina smiled. “I will.”
“You will have time to sightsee, won’t you?”
“Maybe—when I’m not on the case.”
“You’re working too hard.” Alicia’s tone turned disapproving. “You’ve taken after your father, and look where he ended up.”
“Mamma!”
“It’s true. Fifty and dead of a heart attack. That job killed him, and it’ll do the same to you. Why can’t you get a nice, steady office job?”
Sabrina inhaled deeply and counted to five. Bennett Private Investigations had been her dad’s business. When he died, she had abandoned her career in the police force—a job that she had never enjoyed anyway—and taken over the family business. She’d been close to her dad, and continuing his business was her way of keeping his memory alive. It was a decision her mom had never approved of.
“This is my career now,” Sabrina eventually replied. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”
An uncomfortable silence fell before Alicia wisely changed the subject. “How long will you be away?”
“For at least a month.”
“So long?”
“This case is pretty complex—it’s going to take me a week or two just to settle in. It could end up being longer than a month.”
“What am I going to do?”
Sabrina closed her eyes. Alicia knew exactly which buttons to push. Guilt was her specialty. “You’ll be fine, mamma.”
“But, you’ve never been away for so long before.”
“I’ll call often, and you won’t be on your own—you’ve got friends, and I’ve asked Uncle Rob to look in on you.”
Another ponderous pause followed. “It’s not the same as visits from my daughter. Don’t you care how lonely I’ll be?”
Sabrina rolled her eyes, glad her mom couldn’t see her—she hated it when Sabrina did that. “It’s late, mamma. I’d better get to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Alright then,” her mom replied meekly. “Sleep well.”
Sabrina hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa in disgust. Her mom always succeeded in making her feel like the worst daughter in the world. It was the curse of being an only child. Ever since her husband’s death, Alicia had looked to her daughter for stability—the problem was that nothing Sabrina ever did was good enough. Sometimes her mom’s neediness made Sabrina want to scream.
Stifling another yawn, Sabrina glanced across at her computer. She had a lot of work to do but it would have to wait until the morning.
She needed to submit an online application for a criminal record background check on Adriano Bellini. She’d looked into it earlier and discovered the service would cost one-hundred and twenty dollars. After that, she’d have to wait five days before learning if he had any convictions. Still, it might turn up something interesting. Tomorrow, she’d also make some notes about her observations of him so far.
Sabrina got up and padded through to the bathroom. She splashed some cool water on her face before drying it with a fluffy towel. She glanced up at her reflection. The young woman staring back looked tired, and older than her twenty-five years. Her green eyes had dark smudges under them—the result of too many late nights at the office.
I’m starting to look like my mom, she thought with a grimace.
As she brushed her teeth, her thoughts returned to Adriano Bellini. She would have to be careful during her first week—he’d be observing her, making sure she was up to the job. In the meantime, she could gather valuable information by asking her new colleagues about their employer. Daniele, the restaurant manager, had been friendly to her so far—she would start with him.
***
The next day, Sabrina turned up for work dressed in black-stretch pants, a crisp white t-shirt, and white tennis shoes; her dark hair tied back in a pony-tail. Adriano was nowhe
re in sight, although Daniele was busy overseeing the kitchen. He came over to see her and flashed her a grin.
“You came back. I wasn't sure after last night you would.”
Sabrina returned his smile. “I'm tougher than I look.”
“You certainly weren’t intimidated by the kitchen. Where did you work last?”
“At an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn,” she replied smoothly. “My uncle owns it.”
It was a story she'd already rehearsed, and she had details to back it up. Fortunately, it was only partly a lie—she had spent most of her weekends in her late teens and early twenties working at her uncle’s restaurant. Daniele appeared satisfied with her answer.
“Have you worked here long?” she asked, turning the questioning away from herself.
“Five years, I started as a dishwasher just after high school and worked my way up.”
Perhaps seeing the look of surprise on her face, Daniele laughed. “Adriano didn't want to give me special treatment. He said that if I didn't want to go to cooking school first, I'd have to start at the bottom like everyone else.”
Sabrina smiled. “Sounds fair—although you’ve done pretty well so far.”
“I’m not stopping here,” Daniele assured her. “I’m going to open my own restaurant one day.”
Sabrina tied a black apron around her waist, with the restaurant's name embroidered across the front, and smiled at Daniele’s confidence. With that attitude, she was sure he would.
It was another chaotic evening at La Pasta D'Orata.
From the moment the doors opened, diners flooded in. Some waited outside, hoping someone would cancel their booking so they could get a table. The tourists arrived first, filling the terrace out front and then spilling into the interior. Most of them looked exhausted after a hard day spent pounding Rome's cobbled streets and craning their necks in the city's multitude of churches, museums, and galleries. Then, after around 8.30pm, the first locals appeared.
It was even busier than the night before. With the entire kitchen staff back on board, the dishes flew out of the kitchen. Front of house was managed by an older man named Vincenzo. He worked the cash register, answered the phone, and took bookings; while Halina and Roberto, the two wait-staff, worked alongside Sabrina serving tables.