Nick takes Luca’s hand with his free one. “Thank you for having us.” His tone matches Luca’s.
Luca nods once, releases his grip. His eyes move to Sofia, then Charlotte, then back to Lucia and Nick, letting them take the lead.
Lucia shifts so the girls are between her and him, still holding Sofia’s hand. “Charlotte, Sofia. This is Luca,” she says softly. “He’s my Papá.”
Sofia peeks up at him, then down at her shoes, then up again. “Hi,” she whispers, then nearly buries herself in her mother’s leg.
“Hi, Sofia,” Luca says, voice low like he’s afraid to scare her off. “It’s good to meet you.”
Charlotte clings to Nick’s shoulder, fingers in the collar of his jacket. Lucia touches her back. “And this is Charlotte,” she adds, a tiny smile. “Lottie, can you say hi?”
Charlotte turns her face halfway, one eye peeking over Nick’s shoulder. “Hi,” she breathes, then tucks back in and pats Nick’s jaw.
Luca’s mouth moves into a small smile. “Hi, Charlotte,” he says, softer still. He doesn’t take another step. He understands the unspoken rules and has no interest in testing them.
Lucia nods, grateful for that. “We’re happy to be here,” she says. “Thank you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bianca
The kitchen runs quickly and efficiently, just the way I like it. I keep my back to the dining room door and my eyes on the pass. If I look toward the hallway, I’ll start wondering who is laughing, who is quiet, who is crying in a bathroom. I can’t do that.
I plate.
I’m surprised Giovanni hasn’t come in. He said he’d check, and he hasn’t. It pokes at me more than it should. Then I remember what one of the sous chefs, Marco, murmured to the other when they thought I wasn’t listening. I’m always listening in mykitchen. “Oldest daughter’s first night back in ten, twelve years.” He said it with that mix of awe and gossip kitchens run on. This isn’t just a dinner; it’s a potential powder keg.
So I work.
Aperitivo is easy and dangerous at the same time—too fussy and it looks like I’m showing off, too basic and it looks like I phoned it in.
On the pass: warm olives with orange peel and rosemary; paper-thin carta di musica with a swipe of whipped ricotta and a line of bottarga; little cones of fried sage leaves, crackling and salty; and tiny cups of chilled and smooth pea and mint soup. Pairing is a Ligurian vermentino, cold enough to lift everything without numbing it.
For the girls, I send small shot glasses of apple–pear juice to compliment the mini mozzarella skewers and olive oil-rubbed crostini.
“Three trays to the seating room,” I tell the runners. “Keep the soup upright. Do not stack.”
They move. I reset my board.
Antipasti next. I lay down roasted peppers under oil with garlic the color of straw; thin slices of veal tonnato, sauce naped, capers for color; grilled zucchini and eggplant with basil; a neat fan of prosciutto around a ball of burrata, ready to spill open; a small dish of acciughe al verde, parsley bright, garlic sharp.
I tuck in lemon wedges and warm bread ends to pull the plates together. Wine: a Franciacorta brut.
For the girls, mild roasted red pepper strips with a little cup of ricotta for dipping, plus some melon-and-salami rolls and peach nectar cut with a squeeze of lemon, poured over a single ice cube so it chills without turning to water.
“Walk, don’t run,” I say. “If you break the burrata, don’t bother coming back.”
They grin because they think it’s a joke. It isn’t.
I check the langoustines again—lids off, ice holding them in a shallow bed, antennae active, eyes like polished beads. Good. I close them back up. Not yet.
Primi. Two pastas, because it felt right. I send cavatelli with broccoli rabe, garlic, and a little chili. The other is tagliatelle with a slow pork and tomato ragù, not heavy, silked with butter at the end and finished with Parmigiano from a fresh wheel.
I taste both, adjust a half pinch of salt in the ragù, crack pepper over the greens, pasta.
Wines: the cavatelli gets a Greco di Tufo, the ragù gets a Chianti Classico that has a spine and not much oak. For the girls, small bowls of buttered noodles with a sprinkle of cheese and a side of tiny meatballs that taste like Sunday dinner, with little cups of diluted strawberry juice.
“Two pastas to start on the left, then right, then fill,” I tell the servers. “Don’t talk. Let them.”
