It was at that moment that Giovanni returned from the comune offices in the company of the judging panel, who were helped to the stage one by one.
Felice welcomed them all, and Alessio, Sebastiano and Elio exchanged cheek kisses with each. ‘Judges, have you reached a verdict?’ Felice asked. The five nodded and Giovanni passed the mayor a sealed envelope. Felice opened it, withdrew the note and cleared his throat.
The piazza was deathly silent save the squawking of the gulls overhead. Alessio could feel his heartbeat reverberate down his limbs, sapping the strength from his fingers and toes. For the second time that day he felt a little wobbly on his feet – mostly because he still couldn’t read the expression on Francesca’s face. Her hands had now pressed together at her chest, and she was nibbling at her fingertips.
‘We will begin with a secure place, in no particular order, then announce who of the remaining chefs is to be eliminated.’
Alessio watched as Sebastiano’s gaze fell to his shoes, and he began to shift his weight from foot to foot. To offer some comfort Alessio gave him another pat on the back, and this time he was met with one in return. Perhaps it would be as close as Sebastiano came to thanking him, though thanks wasn’t what Alessio sought.
‘And so, the first of the two chefs to carry on today into the finale is . . . Elio Martino!’
Alessio felt a rush of saliva collect at the back of his throat, caught somewhere between dread and a thickening sense of impending doom. While he had thoroughly enjoyed today’s cook, he just couldn’t shake the way Frances—
Elio stood forward to accept the recognition his ego craved, and all thoughts dropped from Alessio’s mind. Even from a few feet behind, his stomach churned at the way Elio seemed to inflate with pride.
I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I? Why did I break ranks? Why did I go to help my competition? You’re an idiot, Alessio! A fucking idiot.
‘Elio, the judges described your combination of the cacao, cinnamon and honey as comforting, familiar but expertly balanced. One commented, “A typical combination, but crafted by someone who understands the heart of Impastino’s agricultural story.”’
Upon hearing this, Elio descended into deep fake-nice mode, plastering a manufactured smile across his face. He turned and locked eyes with Alessio, and for the briefest of moments the smile contorted to a mirthless snarl, seen only by Alessio and Sebastiano. Alessio kept his expression neutral. He wouldn’t be intimidated. Not now. Not ever. The other men might not know it, but he too had deep-seated roots in Impastino. And while he was still embracing all that Impastino offered and what it stood for, there was no room in his life for this kind of nasty behaviour.
You’ll get your karma. And it will be sweet. Your just deserts. One day you’ll be outdone by someone who will rip your local reputation to shreds.
But Alessio’s internal monologue of revenge was short-lived, as Felice still had the floor.
‘Now, the most difficult task of the day – announcing the second chef who will join Elio in the final round of this year’s competition.’
Alessio heard Sebastiano swallow next to him. But his eyes were now fixed on Francesca. Flanking her on either side were Maria, Elena, Carlo and Simona. Maria clutched at a string of rosary beads while Elena stood tall and proud. But it was Francesca’s desperate eyes that he wanted to find.
‘And the chef moving forward will be . . . Alessio Ranieri!’
All Alessio could process in the moment was the way Francesca’s eyes flashed with relief as she dropped into a grateful squat on the pavers. He longed to join her, to check on her and fix whatever it was that had upset her.
‘Signor Ranieri’s dish is described by one of our judges here as “a true explosion of Impastino’s summer”, and another says, “There is a lot of love in this dish. This chef is enamoured of the town. Or of something grand.”’ Felice welcomed Alessio to stand beside Elio. ‘Complimenti, to you both!’
Forcing a polite smile, Alessio remembered Sebastiano. He turned and gestured with a flick of his chin that he ought to join them. The crowd appreciated this and cheered him on. Sebastiano, clearly upset and embarrassed, clapped his acknowledgement and thanks to the crowd, then, directly to Alessio as he stepped forward.
The smallest of worries crept into Alessio’s mind; had he cleared the round because of his skill level and the quality of the dish? Or was it in exchange for the kind gesture he had bestowed upon Sebastiano?
The judges weren’t here to see that. You earned this. Take the moment and enjoy it.
‘The final round of the Festa della Pasta will take place three Sundays from now, on the twenty-third. It will be a showdown between Elio Martino and Alessio Ranieri. One final duel for the title of Sfoglino dell’Anno. In the meantime, go, join your families and celebrate today’s exceptional achievements.’
Alessio didn’t need telling twice. He bolted from the stage and made a beeline for Francesca.
* * *
Francesca felt Alessio pull her from the pavers as if she were a rag doll, his arms immediately wrapping around her. To the outside world it simply read victory embrace, but to her it meant safety and security.
He leaned down to her ear, his face immediately hidden by her curls. ‘What’s wrong?’ His voice trembled with a new kind of anxiety she hadn’t heard from him before. ‘What did I do?’
‘What you did for Sebas—’
‘I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. It was instinct.’
‘No. It was just perfect.’
Alessio pulled back to face her, and the confusion and chaos of the throbbing crowd blurred around them. ‘Perfect? How? I thought I must have risked—’
