Chapter 3 - An Unlikely Feast
|
Meline stared at Alessandro’s outstretched hand as if he were offering her a burning coal.
“Sir, I can't sit at the family table,” she stammered, pulling her damp apron tight against her waist.
“House rules strictly forbid the junior domestic staff from occupying dining furniture.”
Giovanni chuckled softly from his chair, tapping his walking stick against the rug.
“Child, the woman who invented those foolish rules is currently stuffing her cheap nylon stockings into a suitcase,” the old man said.
“Sit down before my son decides to carry you into the seat himself.”
Meline felt heat rush up her neck and flood her round cheeks with crimson.
Alessandro did not drop his arm; he simply stood there, patient, immovable, and devastatingly handsome in the midday light.
Realizing that arguing with the head of the Moretti family was far more dangerous than obeying, she took a hesitant step forward.
She pulled out the heavy mahogany armchair two seats down from Giovanni, but Alessandro caught the carved backrest first.
He slid the chair out smoothly with effortless chivalry, waiting until she seated her fuller frame before pushing it gently toward the table.
The kitchen staff scurried into the room like frantic mice, laying out silver chargers, warm porcelain bowls, and fresh linen napkins.
Nobody looked Meline in the eye, but she could feel the collective shock radiating from every maid and footman.
A junior girl from the East Side, hired three weeks ago to scrub baseboards, was sitting beside the most feared syndicate don in Illinois.
Alessandro removed his heavy dark coat, tossed it over an empty chair, and sat down at the head of the table.
He picked up the silver ladle and personally served a rich portion of beef and barley into Giovanni’s bowl.
Then, without pausing, he filled a second bowl to the brim and placed it directly in front of Meline.
“Eat, Miss Pierce,” Alessandro said, his deep baritone leaving no room for polite refusal.
“You missed your own lunch hour trying to feed my father.”
Meline picked up the heavy silver spoon, her hand trembling slightly as the aroma of herbs and simmered broth filled her senses.
She had not eaten since five o'clock that morning, when she had shared half an apple with an elderly neighbor before catching the bus.
The first spoonful was warm, savory, and comforting enough to make her throat tighten with suppressed emotion.
“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the gold rim of the bowl.
Giovanni smiled, tearing a thick crust of sourdough bread with his weathered, calloused fingers.
“You’re wondering why I looked like a tramp, aren't you, Meline?” Giovanni asked, dipping the bread into his broth.
“It isn't my place to wonder, Mr. Giovanni,” she replied honestly.
“Call me Giovanni, child,” the old man insisted, waving his spoon.
“I spent forty years living in penthouses where every handshake came with a hidden contract.”
“Three days ago, I walked away from the retirement villa in Naples because I wanted to visit my late wife’s childhood church on the South Side.”
“I took the public train, I wore my old gardening jacket, and I wanted to see who would look at an old man without checking his bank balance first.”
Alessandro shook his head slowly, a mixture of exasperation and deep affection playing across his stern jaw.
“You nearly gave my security team a collective heart attack, Dad,” Alessandro remarked, taking a sip of mineral water.
“They combed three neighborhoods looking for your jacket.”
“And they wouldn't have found me if my hip hadn't locked up near the estate gates,” Giovanni countered with a dry grin.
“I sat on that wet bench for forty minutes while four of your private drivers cruised right past me without tapping the brakes.”
The old man turned his bright blue eyes toward Meline, his smile softening into something sacred and profound.
“Only one person stopped,” Giovanni said quietly.
“Only one girl wrapped her own wool scarf around my neck and asked if my hands were hurting.”
Alessandro turned to study Meline’s face, his dark gaze lingering on the gentle curve of her jaw and the honesty in her hazel eyes.
“Where is your scarf now, Miss Pierce?” Alessandro asked.
Meline blinked, self-conscious under his piercing attention.
“It’s drying on the radiator in the back scullery, sir,” she whispered.
May you like
Alessandro reached out, his warm, broad fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of her damp sleeve.
“From this moment on, you will never work in a scullery again.”
