Page 75 of The Wrong Man

“You have to add the sugar gradually,” I explain, reaching for the caster sugar. “A little at a time, while the whites are whipping. If you add it all at once, you’ll deflate the meringue.”

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

Dante’s voice is closer than I expected. I turn and find him standing beside me, watching the mixer with genuine curiosity. He’s rolled up his sleeves again, and I absolutely do not notice the way his forearms look in the morning light.

I don’t. I refuse.

“Stiff peaks,” I say, and my voice only wavers a little. “You lift the whisk and the meringue should stand up straight. Not droop. Glossy and smooth. Like... like shaving cream, I suppose. Not that I use much shaving cream. I don’t have much facial hair. It’s the Irish genes. We’re not a hairy people. Generally speaking. I mean, some Irish people are hairy, I’m sure, but...”

Stop talking, Dylan. For the love of all that is holy, stop talking. And definitely, absolutely do not think about the fact you just said stiff peaks.

Dante makes that sound again. That almost-laugh, rusty and unused but unmistakably amused. Despite everything, despite the chaos in my head and the guilt in my chest and the complete uncertainty of my situation, I feel a small spark of warmth at having caused it.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

I turn back to the mixer and focus on adding sugar in a slow, steady stream. The meringue is starting to take shape, white and billowy and beautiful.

“My grandmother used to bake,” Dante says quietly.

I nearly drop the sugar bowl. That’s the first time he’s voluntarily shared something personal. Something about his past, his family, his life before he became... whatever he is now.

“Did she?” I keep my voice casual, neutral. Like this is a normal conversation between normal people, not a prisoner desperately cataloguing every scrap of information about his captor.

“Traditional Italian things. Biscotti, panettone at Christmas. She would spend days preparing for holidays. The whole kitchen would smell like anise and almonds.”

His voice has gone soft. Distant. He’s not really here anymore, I realize. He’s somewhere in the past, somewhere that smells like baking and feels like home.

“She sounds lovely,” I say carefully.

“She was efficient.” A pause. “She was also strict. And cold. And she believed that love was a weakness that could be exploited.”

The words land heavy in the quiet kitchen. I don’t know how to respond. Don’t know what to do with this sudden glimpse into the making of a monster.

“She raised you?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.

“After my parents died. I was seven.”

Seven years old, orphaned and handed over to a cold, strict grandmother who taught him that love was weakness. Seven years old, and already learning to build walls around his heart.

Something aches in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like sympathy.

No. Not sympathy. I can’t afford sympathy. He tortured me. He murdered someone in front of me. He’s holding me prisoner. Whatever sad backstory he has doesn’t change what he is now.

But it might explain it. And understanding is the first step to... to what? Forgiveness? Connection?

Escape. Understanding is the first step to escape. If I understand him, I can manipulate him. That’s what I need to remember.

The meringue has reached stiff peaks, glossy and perfect. I turn off the mixer and lift the whisk to check, watching the white peaks stand at attention like little soldiers.

Stiff peaks. Holy Mary, mother of god, stop my filthy mind. The meringue is ready. Ready. That’s the word I’m going with. I’m deleting the other term from my vocabulary.

“Now comes the scary part,” I say, steering us back to safer territory. “Folding in the dry ingredients. This is where most people mess up. You have to be gentle but thorough. Deflate the meringue just enough to get the right consistency, but not so much that it goes flat.”

I’ve already sifted the almond flour and powdered sugar together. I tip them into the bowl and start to fold with a rubber spatula, using the technique Aunt Moira taught me years ago. Cut down the center, sweep around the edge, turn the bowl. Repeat.

Not that I’ve ever managed to get the hang of it. But now is my opportunity to practice. Plenty of time. No other distractions, apart from Dante.

If I reframe it, I’m not being held prisoner by a mafia torturer, I’m on a baking retreat.