Page 17 of The Mafia Bachelor

“Soda bread?” I ask, unable to help myself. It just looks like bread to me.

“It’s made with baking soda rather than yeast to make it rise,” Violet says patronisingly.

Where there had been some camaraderie between us when we’d been working as a team to shoot well enough to win, it’s clearly every woman for herself.

Then, with the same elegance, green soup in perfect white porcelain bowls is placed before everyone, almost simultaneously.

The soup is the dark-green of Kill’s eyes. I don’t know how to deal with this, but thankfully I do know what a soup spoon looks like—more round than a normal spoon—even though we’ve never had something like that at home. But equally, at home we don’t have heavy, pure-white cloth napkins and a tablecloth that reaches to the floor.

But as conversation strikes up, a couple of girls are discreetly trying to spit out the small mouthfuls of soup they’ve taken.

I’m not the kind of person who’s tried lots of special foods, but I’m game, so I scoop a bit of soup by dipping the spoon into the deep-green soup. It’s immediately subsumed, the soup totally opaque although it’s thin, like a broth.

I bring it to my mouth, and a drip of soup splashes from the spoon and onto the pristine white tablecloth. I freeze, the cringe going to my bones, as I feel how out of my depth I am with mere soup. Never mind everything else.

The girl beside me glances across and titters, her gaze dropping to the spot.

My face heating, I shove the spoon into my mouth. Flavour explodes. It’s like spinach, but with sort of grassy undertones, and a herbal scent. It’s savoury, and there’s a depth of taste that lingers on my tongue, almost tingling.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tried.

It has a hint of the wild. Like a summer meadow. My eyes go wide, and I meet Kill’s gaze. He looks me up and down speculatively, and the warmth increases. All over.

It’s only then I notice that the other women are delicately tipping their spoons away from them and into the soup, their wrists graceful and only a tiny bit of soup on the spoon.

Ah. Right.

This is one of those things I didn’t have a clue about.

He takes a spoonful himself. But what’s interesting is that he eats without the grace of the women I’m competing against. He’s utilitarian, and I get the vibe he’d drink it straight from the bowl in gulps if he could.

“What do you think of the nettle soup?” Kill asks mildly.

The heat drains from me. Nettle?

“What?” I stutter. “Is that safe?” I glance down at the deep-green soup, which has taken a more sinister tone.

“It’s a traditional Irish dish,” says Violet smugly. “Didn’t you know?”

I shake my head. I’m an idiot. I should have done more research on Irish stuff. I was busy with learning about the other girls and reading up on guns, the Archway mafia, and Irish alcohol. Food didn’t occur to me.

“It’s alright. I’m not trying to poison you.” Kill smiles, and his amusement shines through. “Do you like it?”

I blink. “Yes. It’s good. Weird.”

Kill laughs, and it’s a rich, throaty sound that shoots sparks down to the place where my legs meet.

Next is a little sorbet, then a shallow bowl of stew. It’s a dark-brown, with pale-yellow chunks that I think must be potato, and vegetables. Onion, carrots.

This time I know to tip it away from me, and it’s not so bad. I’m getting the hang of this nonsense. The stew is more familiar, but’s got the same not quite usual taste. It’s deeper. Richer. Delicious. I eat every bit.

“We thought you’d enjoy some proper Irish fare.” After that’s cleared away, Kill glances from side to side before his gaze settles on me.

“What about some potatoes?” asks Violet, and laughs.

“As you wish.” Kill’s eyes gleam, and the dozen waitstaff appear with huge white plates. On each one are six little pale yellow-white piles, and it takes me a moment to realise what they are. The smell though, is divine. Butter, carbohydrates, and herbs.

It’s potatoes in a dozen different forms. What I think must be mashed potato, creamy and smooth. A tiny stack of French fries. Baked potato, but only a mouthful, with what looks like beans and cheese on top, sprinkled with black pepper. A single small potato covered with butter and specks of greenery. There are others, some fried, some with cheese.