My stomach growls again, louder this time, and Ettore laughs.
"Have you tried them before?" he asks, already reaching for a plate.
I shake my head. "Never. Not even in Florence."
Ettore looks positively scandalized. "Never? This is a crime!" He carefully lifts one of the pastries with a spatula. "They need only a few more minutes to cool properly, but for you, we can wait. Then you try your first sfogliatella made the proper way."
I smile, genuinely this time. There's something so comforting about Ettore's enthusiasm for food.
"I'd love to try one," I say, pulling up a stool at the counter.
I settle onto the barstool, watching Ettore arrange the pastries with loving care. The kitchen feels like theheart of this massive mansion—warm and fragrant when the rest of the place feels cold and sterile.
"How long have you worked for the Ferettis?" I ask, genuinely curious. There's something about his fatherly demeanor that makes me let my guard down, just a little.
Ettore glances up, flour dusting his beard. "Twenty-seven years now," he says with pride in his voice. "Came here from Tuscany when I was just a young man. Twenty-three, full of dreams about America." He chuckles, shaking his head at the memory.
"What brought you to them specifically?" I ask, tracing a pattern in the flour dusted on the counter.
"Ah, that's a story." Ettore checks the pastries with practiced fingers. "Not quite cool enough yet, pazienza." He leans against the counter. "I came to New York to work at a restaurant in Little Italy. Very fancy place, or so I thought then." His blue eyes twinkle. "One night, Damiano's father came in with his wife—beautiful woman, looked just like Lucrezia. They ordered things not on the menu, and the chef, he went crazy with anger."
Ettore pantomimes an explosion with his hands. "But me? I said, 'I make it.' The old Don, he liked that. Three months later, he offers me double to cook just for his family." He pats his slightly round belly. "Twenty-seven years later, still here."
"You've known Damiano since he was a child, then," I say, trying to picture a younger version of my stone-faced husband.
"Si, since he was nine. Enzo was seven. Piccola Lucrezia wasn't born yet." Something softens in his expression. "After their parents were killed, cooking was the only way I could help those children. Food iscomfort, yes? Every sauce, every dish—it speaks of home."
The casual mention of their parents' murder catches me off guard. I hadn't known that part of their history.
"I didn't realize their parents were killed," I say quietly.
Ettore's expression clouds. "Terrible thing. Damiano found them." He crosses himself quickly. "After that, he changed. Had to become the man of the house overnight."
He straightens up suddenly, as if remembering himself. "But enough sad stories! These are ready now." He places a pastry on a small plate and sets it before me with a flourish. "Your first sfogliatella, signora. A momentous occasion!"
The pastry is still warm, the shell crackling under my fingers as I pick it up.
I take a bite of the sfogliatella, and the delicate pastry shatters beneath my teeth. The contrast between the crisp outer shell and the creamy, sweet ricotta filling is incredible. A hint of orange and cinnamon bursts across my tongue, and I can't hold back a soft moan of pleasure.
"This is amazing," I tell Ettore, covering my mouth with my hand as I speak.
His face lights up with pride. "You see? This is real Italian cooking."
I'm about to take another bite when the kitchen door swings open with such force it bangs against the wall. Lucrezia rushes in, her dark hair flying behind her like a banner.
"I smelled them from upstairs!" she announces, her eyes landing on the cooling rack of pastries. "Ettore, you beautiful man, you made sfogliatelle!"
Ettorechuckles, already reaching for another plate. "Just in time, piccola. I was giving your sister-in-law her first taste."
"Your first?" Lucrezia's eyes widen as she slides onto the stool beside me. "What do you think? Aren't they the best thing ever?"
I nod, taking another bite. "I've never had anything like it."
Lucrezia accepts her pastry from Ettore with the enthusiasm of a child receiving candy. "Damiano used to bribe me with these when I was little. One sfogliatella for every A on my report card." She takes a big bite, closing her eyes in bliss. "Worth studying for."
Ettore places a small espresso beside Lucrezia's plate. "The perfect pairing," he says with a wink.
"So," Lucrezia says between bites, turning to me. "Damiano told me we need to go shopping for the gala." She licks a bit of sugar from her thumb. "He said you need something 'appropriate' which is his code for 'expensive and conservative.'"
