“Coffee, Bianca,” she purred, stretching like a cat. “Strong for him, half-and-half for me. You know the routine.”
I handed them the mugs without a word.
Marcello didn’t even glance at me. He sipped, then said, “Bacon and omelet, Bianca. Lizzy likes it the way I do. None of that salty mess you used to make. She’s watching her figure—not that it shows, huh?”
Vivienne leaned on the counter, lounging like she owned the house. “Not everyone wants to look like a stick wrapped in misery, sweetie.”
I smiled. Not with warmth. Strategy.
Smile. Just smile. You’ve cooked for enemies before.
I cracked more eggs. Let the oil hiss. Ignored their chatter about the penthouse, the sheets, the sex, the way he snored with her. They complained about the shampoo, discussed him as if I were invisible. I was the maid in their play, not a person.
Then the front door swung open.
“Family’s here!” Antonio’s voice boomed, sitcom-style. “Let the party begin!”
Chiara followed, heels tapping tiles, holding a designer bag as if it were a holy relic. “Mom! Vivienne gave me this! Real leather, Italian! And these earrings! She’s amazing.”