Chapter 7: Three in the Morning

At three in the morning Cecilia gave up on sleep and went down to the kitchen.

She tied on one of Zia's aprons, pulled a bag of flour from the pantry, and began to make dough with her left hand.

Her right palm still ached under its bandage, but kneading helped.

Her father used to say a baker's hands think faster than her head.

She made her father's lemon ricotta tarts, because they were the only recipe she knew by heart.

By the time the crusts were in the oven the kitchen smelled like sugar and lemon peel, and she had stopped shaking.

"You're up."

She nearly dropped the rolling pin.

Ettore stood in the doorway in a dark T-shirt and gray trousers, with his hair rumpled and his feet bare.

She had never seen him without a jacket.

His forearms were scarred, thick, and very still.

"I couldn't sleep," she said.

"Neither could I."

"I'll clean up."

"I didn't say a word about the mess."

He crossed to the cupboard above the stove and reached for the tin of coffee on the top shelf.

To reach it he had to step behind her.

She felt the heat of his chest a half inch from her back.

He didn't touch her.

He stood with one hand on the shelf above her head and his breath moving the hair at her neck.

The oven ticked.

The smell of lemon was suddenly very strong.

His breath had changed, and it was shorter, and it caught once.

Flour, she told herself. It's the flour in the air.

Neither of them moved.

"Is there a rule about how close the Don stands to his guests?" she said.

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