He could still remember all of it as if it had been yesterday, especially now that she stood before him as if frozen in place, just as he was. His mind spun out the way it had the first time he’d seen those green eyes of hers, reminding him of the only peace he’d ever known—the land he’d bought in these very same hills.
Back then he’d been in Japan, minding his own business and going about his life, overseeing a new restaurant build. Until his phone had blown up, with everyone he knew rushing to tell him that there was a snake in the grass at his New York restaurant.
That the manager of the restaurant—a position that should have come with some level of decorum and discretion to accompany the excellent pay—had shot her mouth off to some tabloid reporter.
If you like fancy, it’s fine, the woman had said, according to the papers.But it’s anexperience. It’s not ameal. I eat before I go to work and sometimes grab a snack on the way home, too.
Theaudacity.The astonishingcheekof it, to take his money and then turn around and talk about him this way, as if his Michelin stars were meaningless. As if being named the most exciting thing to happen to the culinary arts in a generation was nothing more than lip service.
Shegrabbed a snackon the way home from work? Antonluca had been incensed. Dangerously so.
He had managed over the years to tamp down on the wildfire temper that some people—including himself, back in his early days—calledpassionandartistic temperament. When Antonluca was entirely too aware that whatever it was, wherever it came from, it made him act like one of those stereotypical chefs. Forever barking out terse orders in a busy kitchen, having temper tantrums over side dishes and meltdowns regarding the temperature of the soup.
All things worthy of having tantrums over, to his mind. But there was no denying that there was a certain point at which the tantrum became a sideshow, drawing attention away from the reason they were all there in the first place: the food.
Hisfood.
She’s gone, his business manager had assured him when Antonluca had taken his call.I’ll fire her myself.
I think not, Antonluca had replied, glaring out at the dark Tokyo night on the other side of his hotel penthouse window, his voice scathing.I think I will come to New York myself and see if I find my food more of an amusement park ride than a meal. Perhaps this woman is correct. If so, she deserves a raise.
And so he had stormed onto his waiting jet and fumed his way across the planet.
Somewhere high in the air, he accepted the unpleasant fact that he wouldn’t have been so outraged if he wasn’t concerned that there wassometruth in what she’d said. Cruising along at high altitude, he had been forced to face something he’d known that he’d been avoiding for a while.
The truth was simple and devastating. He, Antonluca Aniello, who hadredefined Italian cuisine—according to everyone—did not feel connected to his food any longer. Not in the way he had been, way back when he’d started.
Back when he’d accidentally found his way into a restaurant in Rome and had saved his own life. And not only his.
He had started off washing dishes. He had been thirteen and big for his age, so it had been easy enough to pretend he was older. And working in that kitchen had been a means to an end, at first. It had meant money, and that had been all he’d cared about. Because money meant that he could take care of his siblings—and keep them from making far more desperate choices out on the streets of Rome.
Bad things happened to homeless children, as Antonluca knew all too well.
And he was the oldest, so it fell to him to figure out a solution.
So he had. He’d worked his way up from washing dishes to cutting up vegetables, and then had picked up more than that as he went along. He’d slowly become fluent in the language of food. The dance of flavor, the subtle language of texture, the magic of presentation.
The restaurant had been a family affair, unpretentious and casual and, after a while, welcoming. Antonluca’s interests had been encouraged. Emiliano, the owner and cook, had taught Antonluca everything that he knew—until Antonluca was cooking the dinner service himself.
Soon after that, he began tinkering with the dishes and playing around with the restaurant offerings. And when the day came that he took over for the man who had become more or less the only father he’d ever known, Antonluca had turned it into one of the finest restaurants in Rome.
To this day, people still traveled from all over the world to stand in line on a narrow Roman street—because he refused to take reservations—simply to eat at the few small tables where he had started.
If he really stopped to think about it all, it was astonishing. Still. To have come from so little and to be where he was now, buying hotels on a whim.
But he remembered how that had happened, too, he thought, as he and Hannah still stood frozen in that same moment while these things flashed through his head. Because he had still been responsible for his siblings, he’d branched out from Emiliano’s. He’d worked so he could give each one of his siblings half ownership in a restaurant, to make sure that all of them would be taken care of forever.
The way his mother would have wanted, if she’d been in her right mind instead of addled on drugs. If she’d lived.
The restaurant business was volatile, but Antonluca’s take on elevated staples never seemed to go out of style. And when he had restaurants all over Europe, and a few in the United States, he didn’t stop. Because his younger brothers and sisters were messy and complicated and he was the only one who could help. He was the only one who understood.
So he did what he could.
But somewhere in there, he’d stopped experimenting in the kitchen.
While he was busy building an empire, he’d retreated into the boardrooms, he’d taken the meetings, and he’d told himself it was because he was retreating from the celebrity he’d never wanted as fast as he could.
He’d told himself that the food spoke for itself.
