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We take the elevator to the first floor and step out into the kitchen.
"Is that the only way to get in and out of the basement?" I ask him.
Alessandro shakes his head. "No. This house used to hide runaway slaves and then transport liquor during Prohibition. There's a few cool tricks I kept in place after I renovated it. Like a secret staircase that drops down from a hatch under the steps. The bed down there lifts up like a Murphy bed. A tunnel lets you out about two blocks away, into the bathroom of a dry cleaner."
"I was wondering how you managed to get these properties in the vineyard."
He chuckles. "You have my great-grandfather to thank for that. When he and my Nonna came here from Sicily, they helped the man who owned this house. Nonna cleaned, and he helped the guy with his law practice. My great-grandfather and his daughter inherited this house. They found the tunnels and decided to buy the building where the tunnel let out."
"That's so cool. Our real estate company would have sold this place for millions," I tell him.
He nods, opening the refrigerator to pull out an empty glass, but he turns to a drawer in the countertop to grab some takeout menus.
"You have all of that food in the fridge, Alessandro. Don't you cook?" I ask him.
"Never have the time." He shrugs. "I'm going to make myself a drink. What would you like?"
"To make us something to eat. I don't drink much, still on Shirley Temples from when I was a kid. Don't judge me, I love the maraschino cherries."
"No judgment," he replies with a grin. "I think we can have some fun with cherries."
Heat rises to my cheeks, I'm sure turning the same red as those cherries I like so much.
"Rules, Alessandro, remember the rules," I remind him before stepping toward the pantry and fridge. Cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes will do nicely. Fresh chicken cutlets and pasta can give us something hearty. I grab the ingredients, along with butter and fresh garlic. A gorgeous ceramic cruet catches my eye. Perfect, olive oil is exactly what I need to pull it all together.
It's ornate with delicate watercolor paintings of olives against a backdrop of the Old Country. When I reach out to see how much oil is in it, Alessandro steps behind me, touching my hand to stop me.
"Don't touch that, please." The command is stern, but I can tell he's not angry. The sadness behind those eyes is enough for me to listen.
"I'm sorry. It's beautiful. My mother has one that she keeps olive oil in."
"That one is empty. It belonged to my mother. I'd rather you not use it. There's fresh olive oil in the pantry."
I want to ask him about his mother. The rumors about Mrs. De Luca circulated around La Familia like a story mobsters told their kids at bedtime. She was killed in a car bomb or something like that.
My father talks about it every so often to remind my mother to pay attention to her surroundings. It makes me think of Alessandro's observation. I'm so used to Jenkins and my father that I rarely find myself observant of things happening around me. Things need to change. I need to change.
For now, I concentrate on putting together a respectable dinner. Alessandro hangs around the kitchen, making me a drink and scrolling through his phone. There's a moment where he comes over to see what I'm making.
"That smells delicious, Evelyn. Do you always cook like this?" he asks.
"At first, I'd just help my mother in the kitchen. Sunday dinners and all that, you know? Now, I do almost all the cooking. I imagine she's not exactly happy that she'll have to get back into the kitchen."
"You're not my prisoner, mio dolce. I only want you here for appearances. You can still live your life as you were, except Lorenzo will be escorting you until I can clear Jenkins. Where do you work?"
The question takes me by surprise. "I don't exactly clock in anywhere. I'm usually at home to look after my niece and nephew. I love cooking and baking, but I don't do it professionally."
"Would you like to?" he asks. His curiosity is genuine. I can see the wheels in his mind turning. Outside of being a Mafia underboss, I know Alessandro has good business sense.
"What do you mean? Like opening a restaurant or something?" I ask him. I'd never thought about it before. "Can you tell Lorenzo to come and eat, please?"
Alessandro eyes me with a familiar boy-like gaze reminiscent of my nephew, who doesn't like to share. It takes him a beat to oblige, sending Lorenzo a text, who joins us with subtle joy in his eyes.
"We usually have to go to Donofrio's for cooking like this. Thank you, Mrs. De Luca." Lorenzo takes the plate I've made for him, and with a quick bow of his head, he leaves to return to his duties.
"Normally, we sit down for dinner, and what do you want to do about Sunday dinner?" I ask Alessandro.
"Sunday dinner?" he parrots me.
