The Element of Surprise

Burglary - Part 1

Note: 

Hi all! 

Sorry for not updating. I'm currently working on another writing contest and between that and work, there isn't spare time to write fanfics anymore. Luckily, I have a few extra chapters of this story in my drafts and will be publishing them all today just to get this book up to date. 

Just a heads up, they're not edited as I haven't had time to do so, so please excuse any spelling/grammar/punctuation errors you might find on the way. 

Without further ado, enjoy!!

With a frustrated breath, I switch the TV off and chuck the remote aside. Day three of suspension and I've just finished season five of Friends. And judging by the time, 14:13, if I start now and skip snack breaks, I might even make it through season six. I'm not even a fan of Friends - sure, it's a popular show and some of the joke are funny, but I can only watch two episodes until my brain is screaming for me to watch something intelligent.

Feeling it's time for a break, I shuffle to the kitchen to see what to make for dinner. But remembering I forgot to do some grocery shopping this morning, it becomes clear is takeout once again. Flipping through the menus I've collected over the year I've been living in this apartment - Chinese, Thai, Mexican, Indian - I come across the menu for the Italian restaurant that opened a few streets down little over seven months ago. Their pizzas as great with thick crusts and their pasta's are good as well. Although, nothing comes close to homemade spaghetti.

With my memory of that drunken night at the bar - and everything I said - fully recovered, I recall a certain Italian agent claiming it's a crime within itself to order takeout pasta. And considering I'm bored and in the mood to mess with someone, David Rossi instantly becomes my target.

I dial his number and listen to the rings.

One ring...

Two rings...

Thr...

"Stella?"

Wow, that was quick. Only Penelope ever answers her calls that abrupt.

"Rossi," I keep my voice even and casual despite the butterflies erupting in my stomach.

"Is something wrong? Did anything happen?"

"Everything is fine. Geez, you let it sound as if I live on the bad side of the city."

"That's the problem, I don't know where you live."

"In a penthouse with a golden roof," I joke and hop onto the kitchen counter, flipping through the pages of the menu on my lap, "Say, you're Italian, right?"

"I'm not sure. Let me call my mother and check."

I love that dry humor. Choosing to ignore that sarcasm, I hum in contemplation, "Because I'm thinking about ordering in tonight and can't seem to decide between spaghetti bologna, fettuccine, and the linguine. What would you choose?" There's a short silence on the other end of the line and I can only imagine the look on his face this moment. Chewing on my bottom lip, I withhold the laugh bubbling in my chest, "You still there?"

And then...

"What do you mean 'what would I choose'?" He goes off, "I told you, that's a crime in itself; you don't order Italian food, Estella. It's like taking the alcohol out of a perfectly good eighteen-year-old scotch. Why would you ever want to take the alcohol out of anything? Non posso con gli Americani!"