“It’s also sanity,” I say. “You’re drowning. I can throw you a rope.”
“By tying yourself to a Conti,” she says. “Great plan.”
“Better than tying ourselves to him for years,” I say. “We do this, we’re done in months.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. “You don’t know his house.”
“Then I’ll learn it.”
“You don’t know his people.”
“I’ll keep my head down.”
“You don’t know him,” she says, and then bites the inside of her cheek like she said too much.
I lean on the counter. “What do you want me to say, Ma? That I know he’s dangerous? I know he can afford to be polite because he doesn’t have to raise his voice? I know his name opens doors and closes others? I live here. I’m not new.”
“You’ve been gone,” she says, and it’s not an insult. Just a fact. “You’ve been living where the worst thing that happens is a critic writes a clever sentence about too much salt.”
“Don’t do that,” I say, low. “Don’t belittle me. I’m not some foolish girl.”
She blows out a breath, hands on hips. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.” The hurt sits hot in my chest. “I bled for that kitchen in Florence. I was the first one in and the last one out. I learned to lead without screaming. I learned to fix things with nothing. I learned to take a hit and keep going. That’s real.”
Her shoulders drop a little. “I know you work hard.”
“You don’t talk to me like you do,” I say, softer, but it still cuts. “You talk like I’ve been on vacation. Like I’m playing restaurant while you carry the real weight. That’s not fair.”
She looks at the floor, then at me. “I’m scared,” she says, plain. “You want honesty? I’m scared. Of them. Of him. Of you getting pulled into something you can’t walk out of.”
“I’m scared too,” I say. “But I don’t want you indebted to him for years. This finishes it faster.”
“You’ll be in his house,” she says again, as if she keeps saying it, it changes. “I don’t want you in his house.”
“I don’t want me in his house either,” I say. “I’ll be cooking. Not laundering money. Not running packages. Eggs, soup, pasta. Food. You raised me to be good at that.”
Her mouth tightens. “You think he picked you because you’re good? He picked you because he can. Because that’s what people like him do.”
“Maybe both,” I say. “Either way, I’ll use it.”
Her mouth tightens. “And what about Italy?”
“It waits,” I say. “Three months. Maybe four. I’m not throwing my life away. I’m postponing.”
“You think they’ll keep a spot for you forever?”
“No,” I say. “But he’ll understand a funeral and a family. And if he doesn’t, then that’s my answer about that life.”
She looks at me for a long time. “You’re so sure.”
“I’m not,” I say, honestly. “But I’m sure of you. I’m sure I can cook.”
We stare at each other across the little kitchen like we’re on opposite sides of a field.
Her shoulders drop. “What if he asks for something you can’t give?”
“Like what?”
