Basil Instinct Read Online Free PDF

looked around like possibly Li Wei had slipped into the closet—“you-know-what this Friday night.” She glanced at her clipboard.
    I listened as she rattled off in a single breath what sounded like Scallop Fritters with Roasted Chioggia Beet Carpaccio, Sestri Salad with Grappa and Fig Vinaigrette, Saffron Risotto alla Milanese, Saltimbocca, and Granita di Caffè con Panna. At which she drew a breath, pushed back her lustrous salt and pepper hair with her Darth Vader mitt, and waited for a comment from me. Her expression was a blend of haughty and fearful. I suggested adding some biscotti all’anaci , as the anise flavor would blend nicely with the coffee sherbet. Otherwise, I told her with a respectful dip of my head, a gorgeous menu.
    “Grazie,” she whispered. Then she rambled incoherently about how we’d need at least two other servers and another rock solid sous chef for Friday night, no arguments. Although my mind was whirring along figuring the net loss of providingfine, free eats to Nonna’s new sorority—not to mention all the lost revenue from other customers, considering we’d have to close for the evening; not to mention having to pay three extra staff for this gig—I said, “Of course” without a hint of good Italian ire in my voice.
    She seemed relieved.
    “Let me see your tattoo, Nonna,” I said, stepping closer.
    She looked pained, but extended the mitt to me and turned her head away. I slipped off Choo Choo’s black biker glove and pushed aside a layer of white Ink-Me-Gentle goop, and there it was. An artistic three-centimeter blue B in what was apparently Bastarda font. I toggled my head as I gently rotated her wrist. “I think it looks good, Nonna.” With one fingertip I slid the goop back over the tattoo and eased the mitt back into place. “It’ll heal, you know.”
    Her whimper seemed doubtful on that score.
    I found myself wondering if she was regretting her invitation to join Belfiere. Very slowly, I started to ask, “Nonna—do you—”
    She held up the mitt. “Don’t even say it, Eve. As if I could—ever—ever—as if a little tattoo is enough to make me—” At that I lost her in a flutter of eye blinks.
    “Okay, okay. I get it.”
    She gained strength. She snorted. She was back.
    Then I crossed my arms. “Landon found out who lives at 7199 Gallows Hill Drive in Pendragon.”
    Suddenly my nonna went red in the face and started to stagger to her feet. “You looked?” She sounded like she had just washed up on a desert island and was struggling to catch her breath. “You read my invitation? Shame on you! Shame—”
    In another minute she’d wrestle with a desire to slap me with a lusty malocchio —an Italian curse that generally explains sudden and intractable cases of warts and hairlessness. Mind you, not even Little Serena, that happy heretic, had deserved a malocchio . When the “other” granddaughter declared she Didn’t Cook—“Why the hell should I spend the time making food when I can just pay for the food other people cook like, say, at the Kroger’s?”— Maria Pia was so distressed that she actually looked for a support group for Fine Italian Chefs Whose Grandchildren Don’t Cook. She ranted when she couldn’t find one, and it was the closest she ever came to burning a risotto alla Milanese , but even then she wasn’t flinging around malocchio s.
    Finally, when nothing seemed to help, Little Serena Bacigalupo got flung into Maria Pia’s blind spot. It’s not that she forgot her. It’s kind of like the blind spot in the car when you’re driving down thehighway. You know that motorcycle’s there; you just can’t see it. I was pretty sure a grandchild—any grandchild—lived in a malocchio -free zone, so I didn’t hesitate to tell Nonna about eyeballing her invitation from Belfiere.
    “Nonna!” I said firmly. “Landon and I have your back whether you like it or not. In fact,” I added, “whether we like it or not.”
    She narrowed her