‘That festival is an incredibly important tradition, not just for Impastino, but for us. It’s a pasta-making challenge. Three knockout rounds. One champion crowned Sfoglino dell’Anno at the end.’ Alessio watched as the delicate skin under Francesca’s eyes puckered with tension, her gaze dropping to her feet. ‘Papà was the undefeated champion. For almost three decades. Those rolling pins out there on the wall . . .’ She pointed over Alessio’s shoulder and he turned to look. ‘Those are all of Papà’s Mattarelli d’Onore. The Rolling Pins of Honour trophies. We keep them there for all to see so that Impastino doesn’t forget how incredible he was. The town’s greatest sfoglino ever. His winning streak was unparalleled – until last year. He passed away before the competition, and our biggest rivals – the Martino family – won for the first time. We didn’t have anyone to compete for us and we were in mourning . . . and shock . . . so we didn’t participate.’
While Alessio was saddened by this news, he couldn’t help but feel the knot of tension in his stomach tightening. Given Elena’s fervent demand that he should be told something, he knew that what was to come would involve him. Cautiously, he began, ‘I’m sorry, Francesca. I really am. But what does this situation have to do with me? Do you need the apartment back?’
It was the most logical explanation. Perhaps she needed the apartment for a relative or friend to come join them for the summer to support them in this endeavour? In doing so, would she make the decision his mind had been too cluttered to make until now? The irony there, of course, was that just moments before he had finally felt prepared to unpack and set up camp. For the entire summer. And he knew that was only partly due to the prospect of daily pasticciotti consumption.
Francesca sighed defeatedly. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but having to move you to other accommodation would be a much easier situation to manage.’
Adrenaline suddenly flooded Alessio’s bloodstream. He pushed through the saloon doors and joined them in the kitchen. He had never appreciated surprises, so he defaulted to blunt. ‘I need to know what’s going on.’
Elena raised an eyebrow, and Alessio noted the almost vindictive smile which curled the edges of her lips. ‘Such a silly girl you are, Cesca.’
His eyes locked on Francesca. ‘What did you do?’
In a very low voice, she said, ‘We aren’t allowed to compete. Women. It’s in the rules, a centuries-old tradition. Just the male head chefs of the family . . .’
His voice tightened. ‘Francesca . . .’
The sinew in her slender arms flexed, and her fingers knotted together as she wrung out her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Alessio . . . It was a moment of madness. I had no other choice.’
Alessio’s gaze darted between Elena’s self-righteous stance and Maria’s downcast expression, then back to Francesca’s cowed, trembling frame.
‘The shame this will bring upon us . . .’ Elena tutted.
Francesca cleared her throat and lengthened her spine, but Alessio could still make out the tremor in her limbs. Her usually bright, enthusiastic eyes watered as she nodded. ‘I nominated you as our competitor, Alessio.’
‘You what?!’ There was no mistaking the tension in his voice, or the way his hands flew up defensively, as if to keep her at bay.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I wrote your name on the forms. To represent us. I don’t know what I was think—’
Alessio suddenly felt hot. Stiflingly hot. As if all the blood in his veins was coursing up his torso, through his chest, only to fill his head and pulse menacingly at his temples. ‘Francesca! You weren’t thinking! How could you?!’ Sweat broke across his brow. He felt ill.
Her voice shrank under his anger while her olive skin paled. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What does all this mean?!’
Maria joined Francesca again, wrapping an arm around her in solidarity.
Francesca nodded, wiping her welling eyes with the heels of her palms. ‘I nominated you to cook for us. I said you were a second cousin from Australia. To compete on our family’s behalf, since we aren’t allowed to. And we don’t have a male head chef in the family anymore.’
‘But I’m not—’
‘I panicked in the moment. I looked across the piazza and I saw you there by the window, just gazing out. And that was it.’
Alessio’s frustration morphed into anger, and a familiar bubbling rage he hadn’t felt for a while suddenly rose to the surface. He wanted to raise his voice and allow his emotions to swell and fill the room. He had been hardwired to do that, to rise over the noise, to shout and command in his kitchen. To demand the best, the fastest, the most perfect outcomes, time after time . . .
But this is where he would lose control, and he now knew better.
He closed his eyes and filled his lungs as slowly as he could, trying to drown out that thumping, banging pressure in his head. Dropping the volume of his voice he said, ‘You know I can’t do this.’
‘I know.’ Francesca tried to reach for him, but he dipped back just in time.
‘I cannot cook for you. You know how I feel about it.’
She nodded furiously, setting her curls bouncing. ‘I know. It was before I knew about your . . . your situation.’
Elena suddenly piped up, ‘What situation?!’
‘Mamma, leave it alone. It’s between us.’
