The Devil Served Desire (2 page)

"Arnold, Maria is struggling with her food choices. Let's give her some support and then we'll get back to you."

He slumped in his chair and pouted. "She shouldn't have had that manicotti. What kind of diet lets you eat manicotti?"

"I just started my diet this afternoon," Maria said.

Stephanie nodded, her lips a tight line. "After the manicotti, right?"

"Yeah."

"Did you tell yourself, 'Just this one more fix and then I'll quit?' Did you eat that cheesy pasta and say it was the last one, like you said with all the noodles before?"

"Yeah..."

"And do you feel guilty about that choice now?"

"Yeah..." At least her head did. Her stomach, however, twisted and grumbled, urging her to get out of this uncomfortable, cold chair and knock over anyone who got between her and the manicotti awaiting her at home.

"Guilt won't make you thin, Chubby Chum Maria. Only
you
can make you thin."

"If it's to be, it's up to me!" the group chorused.

"I want to be a teddy bear!" Arnold yelled. Then he flushed and shrugged. "Sorry, Stephanie. I really felt the need to share."

"That's okay, Arnold. We're here to support, not to judge." Stephanie patted his hand. "A teddy bear, though, technically, isn't an animal."

"But I want to be something cute and cuddly." Arnold's shoulders slumped. "So everyone will want to hug me, even if I'm ... I'm f-fat."

"Oh, Arnold, we’ll hug you, Chubby Chum!" The group surged forward, enfolding Arnold in a circle of platitudes and people.

Maria pushed back her chair and tiptoed out of the room. Screw Mary Louise Zipparetto and her Chubby Chums. She could do this on her own.

She was stronger than one manicotti. How hard could it be?

Vinny's Up-in-Flames GranGala

Flambé Chicken

1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 teaspoon each salt and pepper

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 small onion, quartered

2 portobello mushroom caps, sliced

1 cup dry white wine

2 tablespoons butter

4 tablespoons flour

2 tablespoons whipping cream

1/3 cup GranGala imported orange liqueur—the more flammable, the better

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Feel the warmth as you season the chicken with salt and pepper and then brown it in a large skillet with the olive oil. Watch those flames. No sense getting all fired up too early in the process. Add the onions and mushrooms, stirring until the onions become translucent.

Add the wine, then transfer the mixture to a shallow casserole dish and bake, uncovered, for thirty minutes.

Take a break—Whew! That's a lot of cooking. If the boss is out, make yourself a hell of a mimosa with the GranGala and some champagne. Stand by your stove and feel the heat emanating. That's good, isn't it?

When the casserole is done, remove the chicken and vegetables, placing them on a warm platter. Time to light the burners again! Oh, I know. It's such an exciting moment. Try not to get too mesmerized by the flames. Mix the butter and flour into a paste, add it to the pan juices, then add the cream and simmer for five minutes. Put sauce in a nice dish for serving, so everyone, especially the boss, will be impressed and keep their attention on the plate, not the flame.

Now for the real fun. With
flames
. In a small saucepan, warm the GranGala over low heat. Ooh! Lighting another burner! Grab the serving platter and the liqueur, and get ready to set the place on fire. If you want a hell of a presentation, do it at the table. No one will ever forget
this
meal—guaranteed. Pour the liqueur over the chicken and vegetables and then—

Ignite.

Warning: Keep a fire extinguisher handy. And never, ever light the liqueur too close to someone you, or the boss, want to impress.

Before he murdered his sous chef, Dante Del Rosso escaped the heat of the kitchen, bursting through the back door and into the cool March night. He leaned against the brick of the restaurant facade and took in a few breaths until the urge to hurt Vinny Ozello had subsided from a first-degree felony to a misdemeanor.

He sipped at a double shot of grappa, then closed his eyes, and waited for the alcohol to kick in. The spring air cut through his T-shirt, chasing a chill up his spine. He drank again. Unfortunately, no matter how drunk he got, he doubted he'd forget the titanic disaster of tonight.

For six years, he'd dreamed of seeing a review of his restaurant La Vita Deliziosa, in
The Boston Globe
. With more than a hundred Italian restaurants in Boston, it had been a hell of a long wait.

And then, at half past six, George Whitman had strolled into Vita, asked for a corner table, and sat his thin white notepad beside his place setting. Dante had thrown the kitchen into overdrive, fussing over the veal scallopini, searing cutlets with all the care of a gem cutter honing a precious diamond, hovering over the sauce, ensuring it was precisely the right temperature, and then tinkering with the plate until the presentation was flawless.

Then Vinny, damn him, had to go and spoil the whole thing by lighting Whitman on fire.

Dante might as well hang up his hat now and get a job flipping burgers. After the review came out in Thursday's paper, no one would visit his restaurant ever again.

Especially after Dante had to hose down Boston's most critical reviewer with a fire extinguisher. He could see the headline now:
La Vita Deliziosa: A One-Star Inferno of Ineptitude
.

George Whitman was known for his scathing comments—and for never giving anyone a five-star rating. And yet Dante had worked for years to attract Whitman's attention because the slightest nod of the critic's approval would send diners streaming into the restaurant.

Well, he'd certainly attracted Whitman's attention. If he was lucky, he'd get off easy—with only a multimillion dollar lawsuit.

All his dreams, up in smoke. Literally. He'd worked for six years, trying to take what his father had started and turn it into something unique. People were depending on him to make this restaurant work, and yet, despite the endless hours he put in, he still felt like he was pushing a Mack truck uphill. One of these days, his arms were going to get tired and the damned thing would run him over.

If he could just get a good review, some attention from people in high places, he'd thought...

Well, tonight had taken care of that.

Dante pushed off from the wall and crossed to the front of the building. He wasn't needed inside, at least not tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the next night. Nothing like a little fire to clear the place and cancel the rest of the night's reservations.

In the sign over the restaurant, the light illuminating "Deliziosa" sputtered, then went out, leaving no pretty adjective to describe Vita. Seemed appropriate. Kind of like his life. One gaping, empty hole.

Cheers
. He raised his glass, a silent toast, and then downed the rest of it in a single gulp, searing his throat. He was about to go back into the restaurant for a second grappa when he saw a woman exit the church across the street, her coat draped over her arm as if she'd dashed out of there in a hurry. She stopped under the streetlight and scanned the road, probably looking for a cab.

"You won't find a cabbie here, not tonight," Dante called to her. "Not unless he's lost."

She pivoted, and he straightened, Vinny and the smoldering food critic forgotten. She had the shape of an hourglass, and shoulder-length dark hair with ringlets curling around her face like a frame. He stepped out of the shadows and into her line of vision.

She was as intoxicating as the grappa. No, hotter and definitely sweeter. He edged toward the sidewalk, now only separated from her by two narrow lanes of old, bumpy street, a leftover from the seventeenth-century city design.

Without her coat on, he had an unblocked view of shapely legs beneath a straight black skirt and a curvy chest pushing at her T-shirt. Her breasts jutted out seductively, as if they were introducing themselves to his gaze.

Hello
, he thought.
Very pleased to meet you both.

"There were a bunch of cabs outside when I came here tonight," she said. Her voice had the slight tinge of an Italian accent, telling him she'd grown up in a family that interspersed English with the colorful native tongue.

He pointed over his shoulder at Vita, the only business open after eight on the small North End side street. "No customers, no cabs."

"No customers? Did you file bankruptcy between dinner and dessert?"

He laughed, but the sound of it was a bit too bitter to be funny. "No, we just had a small fire."

She raised an eyebrow. "Fire?"

"Long story."

"Oh." He could see she wanted to ask, but didn't. Someday, over drinks maybe, he'd tell her. Hell, with a face and a body like that, he'd tell her his credit card account numbers, too.

They stood there a minute, in the uncomfortable silence of strangers who didn't quite know where to take the conversation next. Dante glanced again at her, standing in the soft pool of light across the street. His gaze traveled back down to his two new acquaintances.

He figured he better make a move before some Red Top made him into a liar and came cruising down the street, taking her away and leaving him with a bunch of regrets and an empty shot glass. He crossed the street, noting how her eyes widened when he approached. Yet she didn't move, not so much as a flinch. One tough cookie. "You hungry?"

She shook her head. "No. No, not at all. Really."

He grinned. "Are you trying to convince me? Or you?"

Her face reddened and she paused a minute before speaking again. "Me, mostly. I'm on a diet."

"Why?"

She gave him an are-you-crazy look. "I think that's pretty obvious." She spread her arms wide.

Now that he was standing a foot away, he took his time perusing her voluptuous form. Much better close up. "Maybe you need a new mirror, because you look pretty damned good to me."

"Maybe you need glasses."

"Let me guess." He waved a hand toward the church behind her. "Chubby Chums support group?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"They meet every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night from seven to nine. After the others have gone home, a couple of them head over to the restaurant for the all-you-can-eat pasta special."

"You're kidding me! Geez, and they bashed me for having manicotti for lunch."

"Ah, the food of the gods, isn't it?"

"
Oh, yeah
." Her eyes rolled back and she smiled a contented smile that said the manicotti had been very, very good.

He hoped his was better. A lot better. Because he definitely wanted to see her smile that way after eating one of his meals. He gestured toward Vita. "Come on, I know the owner. He'll fix you something nice. I promise."

She shifted and turned on her high heels, causing her calf muscles to flex into little hearts, then release.
Lord in heaven
.

"I... I really shouldn't," she said.

He took a step closer. "I really think you should. You look like you've had a bad day."

Her lips, full and glossed with cranberry, curved into a smile. "A bad life is more like it. But..." She glanced over at the restaurant, then back at him. She slid her coat on. "No. Thank you."

"How about a salad? That counts as diet food."

She swallowed and he could see the longing in her eyes, like a child spying a new bike in a department store window. "What kind?"

"Whatever you want. The chef will take care of you, even custom-make something if you don't like what you see." He grinned. "On the menu, I mean."

Her smile turned flirtatious. "How can you be so sure?"

"Trust me."

"I don't even know you."

He put out a hand. "Dante Del Rosso."

She hesitated only a second, then took his hand. Her fingers were long and delicate, yet strong in their grip. Despite his better sense, he pictured her fingers grasping a very different part of his anatomy. His body temperature spiked like an August heat wave.

"Maria Pagliano."

He didn't let go right away. "Have a salad with me, Maria Pagliano. I've had a hell of a day, too."

She tilted her head, considering.

"Listen, I don't bite, my shots are up to date, and if you want a reference, my sixth grade teacher is listed in the phone book."

Maria laughed, a full, hearty sound that seemed to come from some well deep within her. "Okay."

As they crossed the street, the lights over "Deliziosa" came on again. Dante took that as a sign.

Actually, a damned good sign. Maybe his luck was about to change. As long as he kept Vinny away from anything flammable, things were bound to improve.

Dante glanced at Maria and decided they already had.

Dante's Taste-of-Heaven Tortellini Temptation

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 ounces minced ground pork

2 ounces minced ground turkey

2 ounces finely chopped sausage

2 ounces minced mortadella

1/2 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Pinch grated nutmeg

1 pound fresh pasta dough, made with your own two hands

Salt and pepper to taste

In a large skillet, heat the butter over medium heat, watching it melt while you're thinking of the beautiful woman you want to impress. Add the meats and sauté until cooked thoroughly. Remove from heat, add the remaining filling ingredients, choosing only the best quality for her. If needed, dice additionally in a food processor so everything is even and beautiful. Set aside.

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the pasta dough (or use a pasta machine) to a thickness of 1/8 inch. Drop 1/2 teaspoon of filling along the length of the dough, about two inches apart. Then carefully cut the dough into squares with a pastry wheel.

With a pastry brush or your finger dipped in water, moisten the dough around the filling. Don't overdo this because you want it to be a perfect tortellini circle. Fold the squares into triangles and press the dough to mold around the filling.