She grinned, but just as she turned to put down her drink and plate, she was intercepted by Sebastiano Bellomo.
‘Buonasera,’ he began. He stood with his arms tensely folded, struggling to hold eye contact.
‘Buonasera,’ she replied after a hesitant pause.
In English, he said, ‘I just wanted to come and congratulate you, I guess.’ Again, his eyes were elsewhere.
‘Grazie, Sebastiano.’ She forced the pleasantries out of respect for his gesture. He hadn’t needed to come and find them. He hadn’t needed to congratulate them. But he had.
‘Sorry about the first two rounds,’ Alessio put in, acknowledging that his deception had forced Sebastiano out of the competition.
Sebastiano waved it off. ‘You’re a far better cook than me, no matter who you are. And I never got to thank you properly for your help in the second tappa—’
But Alessio beat him to it. ‘Relax, mate. All good. It’s in the past.’
Sebastiano took a step forward and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see the joy on Elio’s face when I was in trouble . . .’
Francesca and Alessio shared a loaded look.
‘Sebastiano,’ Alessio began, ‘people do all sorts of crazy things when they’re stre—’
Sebastiano waved this away. ‘No. Don’t make excuses for him. Basta! He’s always like that. It’s just taken me a while to realise that it could extend to me, too.’
Francesca felt her chest fill with sadness for him. ‘Dai! Come and sit with us, there’s room at our table. Get some food and make your way over.’
They could both see that Sebastiano was weighing up this offer. It would be the ultimate betrayal of his ties to Elio, and perhaps, between their two restaurants. But from the way his eyes darted to and fro, and his lips parted to speak but then snapped shut again, Francesca knew it would be a difficult decision. One he couldn’t necessarily make on the spot with an audience.
Sebastiano’s gaze flicked across to Da Martino. The Martino supporters’ flags and banners had been pinned to the upper floor’s balcony and terrazzo, and flapped in the breeze. And naturally, the supporters, including Elio, were safely inside licking their wounds.
‘Erm . . . Sì. Grazie. I’ll come. Just let me get some more . . .’ He gestured in the direction of the grill.
Under her breath Francesca said, ‘Non ci credo . . .’
‘I know. That was huge.’
Just as they were about to turn, a hand grabbed Francesca’s shoulder, and she spun around on the spot.
‘Francesca!’ A bright-eyed flat-cap wearing gentleman in his mid-eighties beamed.
‘Oh! Ettore, lovely to see you,’ she began in Italian.
Ettore grabbed Alessio with his other hand, pinning them at arm’s reach. ‘Bravissimi! Bravi!’ Then he rolled into a colourful pugliese monologue of praises, which Francesca knew would be lost on Alessio.
‘Ah. I know Ettore!’ Alessio said, giving their elderly companion a neighbourly pat on the back. ‘Ettore and I met when he was down on his luck in a game of cards at the bar. Isn’t that right Ettore?’ He mimed out the card scene as best as he could with his plate-filled hands.
Francesca translated between them, causing Ettore to howl with laughter at his own misfortune. ‘Alessio, Ettore is a very special friend of my nonno. The nonno who was married to Nonna Maria.’
‘Francesca, I want to tell you something . . .’ Ettore pulled them closer. ‘We know why you did what you did. We all do. The whole town’s been talking about it all afternoon.’
Francesca felt her cheeks prickle. ‘Ettore. I was despera—’
‘Shh!’ he hissed, drawing her to silence. ‘We loved your papà. We loved what he did for Impastino, and for so long. But now, you need to be free to forge your own path. Make the Fiore legacy your own.’ Ettore released his hold on them and pulled down his flat cap, clutching it to his chest. ‘Your Papà and nonno would have been so proud to see you up there today. We all were.’ Their attention was momentarily drawn to Da Martino to their right, where a flag had come free from the terrazzo and had blown off down to the sea path.
Francesca giggled through welling eyes. ‘Thank you. I needed to hear that.’
‘Grazie Ettore,’ Alessio said, having understood enough of the kind sentiment.
‘No guilt now. Just hard work and focus. We know what you’re made of. Pride. Determination. You’ve shown Impastino what you can do. Now, you need to do it.’ Ettore tapped the side of his nose and gave her a wink.
