He reaches down beside the bed and lifts a neatly wrapped package—brown paper, tied with twine.
Unlike his usual prepped and wrapped gifts, this one seems more… heartfelt.
“I—Santo, what is this?”
“Open it,” he says quietly.
There’s something in his voice, something warm and nervous.
I unfold the paper carefully, and when the cover appears, my breath stutters.
A leather-bound book.
Worn.
Soft around the edges.
Handwritten title in elegant script:
Lucia Amato-Dolci & Tradizioni
My throat tightens.
“Santo…” I whisper, running my fingers over the cover. “Is this…?”
He nods once, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen. “Her baking recipes.”
I blink fast. “But…I thought La Serenata had her recipes?”
“They have her cookbook,” he says gently. “Her savory dishes. But she made this one too. A whole separate one for pastries and cakes.”
My eyes go wide. “Where did you—why didn’t I know about this? Where has it been?”
He lets out a small exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had to find it. I knew she had one, just never knew where.”
“What do you mean?”
“I searched our entire library,” he says, voice low. “Whenever you weren’t painting in there, I looked for it. Every shelf. Every box. I couldn’t find it.”
His jaw tightens
“Turns out it wasn’t here. It was at Angelo’s estate.”
I look up, confused. “Angelo’s?”
He nods. “My father kept it locked in his office. He didn’t want anyone else to have it. Not me. Not Angelo. Not… anyone.”
I suck in a breath, sadness and anger mixing in my chest. “Why would he hide something like this?”
Santo shakes his head, an old shadow passing through his eyes. “Control. Or cruelty. Sometimes with him, it was the same thing.”
“May I?” he asks slowly as he flips the book open.
There are recipes handwritten in Lucia’s elegant script.
Photographs taped inside. Of her kitchen, her rolling dough, her smiling with flour on her face.
My eyes sting instantly.
