The muscles at the back of my neck ease just enough to breathe. He didn’t say, What about us. He didn’t call me ungrateful.
He does, however, narrow his eyes like he’s checking if a fish is worth the price. “Who else is there,” he says casually. “At this Regalia. Zii, cugini… amici?”
“Yes, my family,” I say carefully. “My mother, aunt, cousins. But it’s mine to run.” True. Not a syllable of Conti in it. I keep those locked away.
He watches my face but doesn’t push. “And you feel”—he waves a hand like he’s stirring a pot and searching for the right spice—“obbligo, sì? But also… io la voglio. I want it. Which one?”
“Both,” I say, because anything else is a lie. “I feel both.”
He grunts. “Good. Too much obligation, you make bad food. Too much want, you burn the place down.” The corner of his mouth tugs. “Eh. Sometimes both together make genius or disaster. We’ll see.”
I laugh, then stop because the feeling in my throat is not laughter. He sees it and gentles in micro-degrees—shoulders lowering, chin tipping.
“Bianca,” he says, and his voice is not the voice he uses for the room. “You are not leaving me because of… problemi?” He gestures in a small circle that could mean anything bad—money, men, trouble. “Pericolo?” Danger.
He knows me too well. He sees too much.
I shake my head. “No.” It comes out too fast, so I say it again, slower. “No.” I hold his eyes and keep the lies far from the surface. “I’m leaving because she left me something, and I need to honor it.”
He nods once, accepts it. “Bene.”
He shifts and gets practical like flipping a knife in his hand. “Okay. Then we talk like grown-ups. You have the paper for this place? The legal? The taxes? The—how you say—permessi? You think about staff? About fornitori? Il pane? The bread”—he jabs a finger at me—“nonna or not nonna, if the bread is bad, your name is dirt.”
I smile wetly. “I know.”
“Do you?” He’s not being cruel; these are just the things that are important to him, and I love him even more for it. “Bread is fresh, every damn day. Pasta is fresh. Ragú? Fresh! But, is not just cooking now. The numbers—ai numeri”—he grimaces like he’s tasted a bad wine—“you think you can escape, but they find you in the shower.”
“I know,” I say again, softer. “And I know I don’t know enough. I’ll keep learning.”
He studies me for a moment, then he nods once, decisive. “Okay. Then I help.”
I blink. “Chef, you don’t have to—”
“Shut up.” He says it with love. He pushes off the bar and stands in front of me. “My phone always on. You call whenever. Quando vuoi! Capito?”
I nod. “I understand.”
I try not to cry. It would be easier if he scolded me. This is worse, better, exactly what I knew he’d do: set me up to succeed even if it costs him the ease of having me here.
“And another thing,” he says, not looking up. “You think you will eat last. No. You eat with your cooks. Mangia, sempre. If you fall down, who will cook? Eh?”
“Okay,” I say, shaky laugh. “Okay.”
He pulls me in for a hug again, squeezing me.
“I am proud,” he says simply. Then he makes a face like he hates being emotional. “Do not tell Paola. She will make me soft.”
“She already knows,” I say, and a tear gets out. I wipe it fast. He pretends not to see.
He reaches into the drawer behind the bar again and pulls out a heavy cream envelope. He writes while I wait. When he finishes, he sands the ink like it’s 1880, blows gently, slides the paper inside, and seals it with a sticker from the wine shelf—a tiny grape cluster.
“Recommendation,” he says, tapping it. “For anyone who needs convincing that you are exactly as good as you are. If you never need it, good. If you do, you have it.”
“Grazie,” I whisper. My voice doesn’t trust me with more.
He nods, briskly, then remembers something else and points at me. “And knives. Where are your good knives? In your casa?”
I nod. “I’ll pick them up today.”
