Would the winner be Alessio, with his red and white striped scarf, taking the title from Elio, or would Elio, with his black and blue scarf, add a second Mattarello d’Onore to his collection?
It was game face time.
Practising the steady breathing techniques Patrick had taught him, Alessio allowed his eyes to gloss over the mayhem in front of them. The only thing he chose to focus on, clearly and sharply, was Francesca. As usual, she stood front and centre, flanked by Maria and Elena.
All three exuded the same electric nervy unease that flitted through Alessio’s stomach. Francesca clasped her hands tightly in front of her and shared a little smile with him up on the stage.
Then Giovanni rang a brass bell to lull the crowd, and Alessio snapped to attention.
Take three. Let’s do this.
‘Buongiorno a tutti!’ Felice cried, the microphone crackling. The crowd gave hearty applause, but quickly fell silent. ‘Here we are, the final round in the Festa della Pasta competition for the year. And we have two exceptionally worthy competitors!’ He turned, catching Alessio’s shoulder and wrapping his arm around him. ‘Alessio Ranieri, cooking for Trattoria dei Fiori, which as we know has experienced a great deal of loss and sadness over the past year. And, of course, we keep in our thoughts and prayers our dear friend Giacomo, may he rest in peace.’ He bowed his head respectfully, momentarily removing his hat. Alessio noted that the majority of the townsfolk did the same; some placing hands over their hearts, others sharing embraces, a few making the sign of the cross. Francesca, Elena and Maria acknowledged this kind sentiment with nods and tight smiles. ‘We wish you well.’ He gave Alessio a generous squeeze, then turned his attention to Elio. ‘And representing Da Martino is none other than our reigning champion, Elio Martino himself!’
Elio gave a sardonic wave. He looked completely relaxed, in a way that made Alessio suddenly uneasy. There was a shift among the crowd, too. To Alessio, it was as clear as day and couldn’t be muffled or misinterpreted. As the drums kicked into gear, he felt an unsettling, menacing energy. He wondered what Felice thought about all this deep down. He did well to hide any bias, remaining bright-faced and ever-cheerful. But surely, behind closed doors, Felice must have had a preference between the two men.
‘The comune and I wish you all the best in your endeavours today. It is a pleasure to share this festival with you, in the spirit of good sportsmanship and civic pride. Giovanni, the timer plea—’
‘Mi scusi, Sindaco. Before we start . . .’ Elio stepped forward, and the way he pinned his shoulders back with self-righteous ease made Alessio’s stomach knot. ‘I would just like to ask a question.’
There was nothing innocent about this move. Elio’s striking blue eyes and smirking smile couldn’t fool Alessio. He knew something was about to happen, and instinctively looked to Francesca. Her eyes were already there, and even at the distance between them, he saw her anxiety.
‘Erm. Of course, sì,’ Felice replied, looking somewhat taken aback.
With one finger raised, Elio asked, ‘Do the rules not state that each restaurant may only have one competitor?’
Alessio watched Felice’s eyes dart from left to right, trying to make sense of the odd question. ‘That’s correct. Uno . . . due . . .’ He counted both men to the crowd.
Elio’s smirk morphed into something more cunning. ‘And the rules clearly state that the competitor chosen to represent each restaurant must be a member of the family?’
Alessio couldn’t look back at Francesca. He knew the tortured expression he would find splashed across her face. To hide his trembling hands he tucked them into the front pouch of Giacomo’s apron and forced himself to look nonchalant, head cocked to the side as he awaited Felice’s response. All the while, his heartbeat juddered through his body.
‘But of course!’ Felice responded with a half-chuckle at the sheer foolishness of the question. ‘Always family. One family per restaurant.’
‘In that case, I must bring something to everyone’s attention.’ Elio took another step forward and withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his apron pocket, opening it flat on his thigh.
Alessio felt as though someone had cut off his supply of air. He recognised the paper immediately – it was Nonna Immacolata’s proxy marriage certificate, complete with his private notes about her life journey, including information about the link to Francesca’s nonno.
His mind seemed to turn to pulp. Where had he left it? How could Elio have—?
The book! The damn street library book! Someone’s found it. The wrong person! The person on the balcony who saw me put it back! Fuck! How could I have been so fucking stupid?!
He wanted to run, he wanted to flee, but his legs seemed petrified to the stage.
‘Sindaco, I believe we find ourselves in an awkward position here today,’ Elio trilled, unable to fully disguise his delight. ‘As I have evidence in my hand that Alessio Ranieri is not a descendant of the Fiore family at all. In fact, his blood is Martino blood.’
There was a moment of stunned silence before the townsfolk erupted in a chorus of gasps and whispers, hands pointing to the stage and heads turning to and fro. Phone cameras went into overdrive.
Francesca was the first to break ranks. From the stage Alessio watched as her eyes closed, her hands gripping the sides of her face, knuckles white as the narrative they had built crumbled around her.
Felice snapped the paper from Elio’s hand and scanned the contents. His shoulders dropped, then he turned to face Alessio. Away from the microphone he asked, ‘What’s this all about? Is it true?’
What could Alessio possibly do? He was trapped. Backed into a corner.
No, I’m not related to her. I’m not family on any level except for . . .
He cleared his throat. ‘Allow me to explain.’
Alessio’s wide-eyed councillor loosened his collar.
