There you go. That’s it. That’s all you had to do.
‘Restaurant? Really? Which one?’
‘Trattoria dei Fiori.’
The man’s brow creased and he squinted down at the sand in confusion. ‘But Francesca never mentioned a cousin was coming.’
Shiiiit.
Alessio could feel his heartbeat quicken. ‘It was a last-minute decision. They graciously let me come and stay. I’m Alessio, by the way.’ He proffered his hand, which the man accepted.
‘Carlo. Piacere.’
‘Piacere.’
Carlo’s gaze fell on the volleyball, which he picked up and tossed back into the game behind the pair. Alessio saw that while he’d been dozing, a group had erected a net further down the beach, poles and all.
‘You are a chef?’ Carlo asked, his droopy long auburn fringe flapping in the sea breeze. He gestured to the intricate chef’s knife tattoo across Alessio’s pec.
‘I am. You?’
Carlo nodded. ‘I’m a chef, too. I’m a Catalano. My family owns one of the restaurants on the piazza.’
Alessio was suddenly intrigued. Did this mean that Carlo could potentially be one of his opponents in the Festa della Pasta? Unlike Elio and the waiters from Da Martino, this man didn’t scream Danger Ahead. He was friendly. Relaxed. ‘Which restaurant?’
‘U Ssale. The—’
‘Seafood restaurant.’
Carlo cocked his head to the side. ‘Francesca’s told you all about us?’
Ugh! Play the safe game. Political. Positive. Upbeat.
‘We’ve been too busy catching up these past few days to get too much into town life.’ Alessio waved a nonchalant hand through the air. ‘I went for a walk the other day and took a look at your menu. Put it all together.’
‘Ahh. Capito.’ Carlo seemed to relax a little. Then, quite unexpectedly, he lowered his voice and through thinly parted lips, as if speaking like a ventriloquist, whispered, ‘I take it you will be the one we will compete against in the festa?’
Cautiously, Alessio nodded. ‘Francesca has asked me to, yes. And it’s an honour to support my family. In any way I can.’
‘Good. Bravo!’ Carlo’s voice remained quiet. ‘They have been to hell and back, those women. Especially Francesca. But I don’t need to tell you that. You’re blood.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and nodded his respect. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
My loss? . . . Ahh! Giacomo.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that. I just really want to do my best to live up to Giacomo’s reputation and legacy. I hope I can do them all proud.’
Carlo, clearly in favour of this mentality, pulled Alessio in for another handshake which morphed into a man hug. When they pulled apart, he said, ‘I’m about to teach you the greatest lesson you will ever need to learn in Impastino. Are you ready?’
‘Does it have anything to do with plastic bags?’
Carlo’s eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘No . . .’
Alessio nodded. ‘Ok. Tell me.’
Indicating with his thumb over his shoulder to the volleyball game, Carlo said, ‘Look at the players behind me. Can you see them all?’
Alessio pivoted slightly, looking over Carlo’s shoulder. ‘Yep. Got them.’
‘There are two guys on the other team. They are facing us, no? One with the blue costume da bagno, and the other in black.’
