‘Oh, Alessio,’ she said, walking over to him and pressing polite double kisses to his cheeks. ‘How was your day?’ A few loose curls drooped from her high bun, and her low voice conveyed her fatigue.
‘Day was great. Spoke with my family. They are across everything now.’
She grimaced. ‘Everything?’
‘Yes. And they didn’t tell me off for agreeing to your Festa della Pasta – actually, they think anything that gets me back in the kitchen might just be a positive.’
‘Sul serio?’ She blinked and gave her head a short, sharp shake.
‘Yes.’ Alessio’s mind suddenly flicked back to the morning’s stand-off with the staff from Da Martino. ‘Can I pick your brain about something?’
‘Pick my brain?’ She pressed a hand to her lips to muffle her laughter. ‘I’ve never heard that expression.’
‘Add it to the vocab bank. I just want to ask you a question.’
‘Of course. Please.’ She smiled and leaned back against the railing, tucking the stray curls back up into the bun. ‘This is as far as I go picking my own brain!’
Alessio laughed. ‘Look, what’s the deal with the moody Italian Ken doll waiters at Da Martino?’
The spirit drained from her expression. ‘Did something happen?’
Alessio recounted his moment spent with the pasticciotto by the fountain and the attention it had somehow garnered from the men. How it had started with the bald guy, but quickly escalated.
‘Ughhh!’ Francesca threw her hands in the air in frustration. ‘I thought this might happen! Cazzo!’ She dropped her hands to her hips and started to pace the length of the balcony. ‘Ok, so the last man, the biondino with the blue eyes—’
‘Ken doll 2.0. Yeah?’
‘That is Elio Martino. Head chef of the restaurant for five or six years now. He’s a terrible, awful person.’
‘I didn’t get possible best friend vibes, that’s for sure.’
‘Elio is the best chef in the town. Perhaps, this entire area. There’s no denying it.’
‘Francesc—’
‘No, no. Don’t even try. It’s true. He has had all kinds of formal training. In Milano. Roma. And in Parigi. His work is very bold and confident—’
Alessio gave a disgruntled snort. ‘Like him!’
‘People come from all over Puglia to eat at Da Martino because of Elio.’
‘What’s the food like?’
‘Try it? Me?’ She practically doubled over. ‘Alessio, I wouldn’t trust him not to poison me! And it doesn’t matter, anyhow. We can’t set foot over there. Never have. Never will. It’s been like this for decades. Since his father was in charge too. His father could never beat my papà. Not once!’
‘And I bet he was just as much a ray of sunshine as his son.’
Francesca scowled. ‘And while I am so proud of Papà for his track record, it has caused a toxic rivalry. Without Papà, Elio is finally free to conquer the town. Unmatched. Unanswered. Which he is doing well so far . . .’
The competitive notch in Alessio’s brain clicked a revolution, surprising even himself.
Unmatched. Perhaps, until now?
‘Elio is a brilliant chef, but an extremely bad loser,’ Francesca continued. ‘And lose is all they did, every year that my father competed in the Festa della Pasta, until . . .’
‘Until you lost him. I’m so sorry. But I can’t help but think all this behaviour is masking a deeper insecurity. A war of egos. Their own self-inflicted pressure. Fear of failure. Trust me, I’ve been there.’
‘They might look like rough and tough men, but really they are childish little boys.’ She sighed. ‘And now they have clearly understood your link to us here and the festa and have put a . . . a . . .’ She mimed a dart flying through the air. ‘Bersaglio?’
