Page 36 of Just for a Taste

“O h.”

The house itself was small, remarkably so. I knew the region was famous for its trulli —small, cone-shaped huts made of stacked limestone that historically housed rural peasants. Even so, I had become accustomed to the realm of the Italian nobility, with ornate columns and stained-glass windows in lieu of one-room, windowless dwellings that were theorized to be designed with tax evasion in mind.

Stranger yet, this trullo was the middle building of a cluster of three, and the trulli on either side of it were in different states of disrepair. The westernmost trullo was mostly reduced to rubble, with hoary roots embedded within it. The easternmost trullo had been more recently felled, but it had still been decades since it was in a livable condition.

I tried to hide both my disappointment and confusion, but they must have been evident, as Zeno laughed. “Just wait, mia passerotta ,” he said, giving my hand a small squeeze.

Despite its rustic exterior, the trullo had been outfitted with a modern set of locks, and it took Zeno quite some time to work through them all. As expected from a windowless, airtight hut, the inside was pitch dark. He entered without hesitation, and I did my best to follow his footfalls. Who knew what was in there, after all? There could be countless valuables to accidentally step on, or some tapestry to slip on.

A previously unseen lantern flickered on, impressively illuminating the entire interior. It was practically without decor—bare brick walls, untouched slab floors, and a simple cot within a curtained alcove. Would it even be large enough for the both of us? In the center of the room was a low, dusty coffee table that appeared on the verge of collapse over an equally disheveled rug.

Before doing anything else, Zeno locked the doors behind us—the digital lock, dead bolt, and two latch locks.

“Bit excessive, don’t you think?” I muttered mostly to myself. “Not much to protect here.”

Zeno chuckled and repeated, “Just wait.”

He dropped his suitcase beside the door, got on his knees, and shoved aside the table. It overturned with pathetic ease, as did the chairs. I scampered back. “What are you—”

He threw aside the rug, revealing a large trapdoor. After entering a few numbers on yet another lock flush with the floor, it opened with a satisfying pop .

Zeno grinned up at me and gestured to the open door with a flourish of his hand. “Signorina, your destination awaits.”

“Holy shit.”

I peered down into the door, mouth agape. It was deep and dark, a pit of blackness only a bit larger than me, carved cleanly into limestone. A single ladder, old yet sturdy, was propped against the side, and it wasn’t until Zeno held the lantern over it that I could even see its bottom about twenty feet down.

Despite growing up in the mountains, I was never good with heights, so I only felt reassured enough to enter when Zeno gave me an approving nod upon touching the ladder.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he said.

I gulped, ducked beneath the lantern, and descended. It was a surprisingly quick trip to the bottom

When my feet touched the ground, my lantern and concern were both rendered unnecessary. Dozens of ceiling lights flickered on, revealing a long, perfectly symmetrical tunnel, complete with decoratively carved reinforcements. The floor itself was embossed in a simple yet meticulously laid pattern; the curved walls were painted. But questions remained, as the tunnel ended in a solid wall.

Zeno scaled the ladder quickly and hopped to my side. After giving my shoulder a squeeze, he walked in front of me, staring at the ceiling.

“One, two, three . . .”

Midway down the hall and midway through the twenties, he stopped and crouched. He trailed his finger along an unseen line on the wall, then pressed an inconspicuous divot.

With a hiss, a previously unseen entrance propped open.

Zeno gestured for me to follow him across the threshold.

I had come to know Italian wealth over the past several months—its good, its bad, and most of all, its beauty. There was the showy decor of houses that doubled as public exhibits, the celestial buildings of religious devotion, and now this: rustic luxury.

We entered a living room covered in countless exotic furs, mahogany wood, and plenty of landscape paintings. There was an enormous marble fireplace opposite a plush couch. For a moment, I wondered if it was for show, considering our underground dwelling, but the fine layer of soot outlining the stone proved otherwise.

Zeno leaned against the doorframe, his arm curved around its surface.

“There were fears among the Medici circa the nineteenth century that Italy may follow in the steps of France and have her own Robespierre emerge from the woodwork, hence the acquisition of this place.” He gestured toward a chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. “I suppose they could have found a place to hide without spending millions to excavate, but I doubt they could have survived without a wine cellar or fine decor. Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

I peered around and discovered two additional doors, both with their own locks. I neared one and could open it with relative ease, as the padlocks were already unlocked. The door creaked open, revealing yet another long hallway.

“How big is this place?” I asked, closing it.

“I would not be able to attest to that. I left the room to your left only on a few occasions during my stay. In truth, I know very little about this residence.”

I looked at the door of the aforementioned room and noted that it differed from the others—scratched, with chipped paint. I fought the urge to look inside, somehow knowing it wouldn’t be right to do so in his presence.

“I’m heading out,” Zeno said.

“Huh?” My eyes fell to the floor. I mumbled, “Oh, you’re leaving.”

“I have some loose ends to tie up. I need to send off a few people to town for clothes, food—”

“By food, you mean chocolate,” I cut in.

“Chocolate and wine, I’ll have you know,” he teased. “Regardless, I’ll be back in a few hours.” Though obscured by his mask, I could sense Zeno wore that crooked, bemused smirk of his. “Is that disappointment I see on your face?”

I felt my cheeks grow hot and put my hands on my hips. “So what if it is?”

“Careful, Cora. I might get an even bigger head than I already have.”

I masked a smile with a huff. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you humble.”

“A job I wouldn’t entrust to anyone else,” he said, ruffling my hair. “The time will go more quickly if you look around a little. I’m relying on you to pick out some music, too, of course, as well as our next book.”

A grin spread across my face. “We’re going to keep reading together here?”

“Of course. Nothing gives me more pleasure, passerotta .” He lifted his balaclava just enough to expose his lips, grabbed me by the chin, and planted a rough kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t leave the house, okay?”

I nodded, a bit taken aback but too excited to look around to ask questions. The moment he left, I eagerly began my search.