The crowd had fallen completely silent.
Francesca felt vulnerable, starkly visible. Torn between her grief and her determination, she took another step forward, accepting the paper he proffered.
She looked down at the two final dotted lines.
Assigned Head Chef competitor . . . and Signature . . .
‘Or are you to withdraw this year, given the . . . circumstances?’
She shook her head and her gaze fixed on Trattoria dei Fiori. Her pride and joy. Her family’s incredible legacy to the town. Decades of undisputed, uninterrupted victories. From strength to strength. And all because of her father. Now everything had changed and it cut her to the quick. With her palms now damp, and not because of the heat, she took the final step forward, her eyes still on their restaurant.
It was then that a figure appeared by the window of the apartment she usually called home. The curious handsome guest with wavy chestnut hair, hazel-brown eyes and tattooed forearms. He seemed to peer out over the crowded piazza for a moment before yawning and pulling the voile curtain closed.
Francesca’s heart suddenly caught a new beat; it was scared and cautious, but steeped in potential. A bright spark of hope reignited the flame in her spirit, and while it made no sense whatsoever, while it was dangerous, foolish and perhaps even illegal, she could see no other way out.
He’s the sign I’d pleaded for . . .
Into the yawning silence, Felice asked again, ‘Francesca. Do you have a competitor this year?’
To his obvious surprise, Francesca accepted the pen Giovanni offered with quivering fingers. Crouching so as to use the creamy sandstone pavers underfoot for support, and ignoring the small internal voice that was trying to tell her this plan defied all reason and logic, Francesca wrote the two words which her heart summoned for her.
Alessio Ranieri.
due
Francesca didn’t look back. She couldn’t. The very thought of having to explain or make sense of what she had just done brought the acrid kick of bile to her mouth.
She grimaced and swallowed it all down, silently berating herself as she strode back towards the restaurant with a don’t interrupt me demeanour.
Head down, heart slamming against her ribcage, she darted between the tables laid out in front of Trattoria dei Fiori. She ached to just disappear before anyone caught up with her to ask questions or pry.
She had what she needed in the interim: the key dates and the information about the three cooking rounds. It was all spelled out in black and white on the pages in her hand.
Now what she needed was a plan.
Casting aside the beaded screen, Francesca charged through the dining area and into the kitchen. The saloon doors banged on their hinges, startling Maria into curse words by the stove. Clutching her chest, wooden spoon in hand, she panted, ‘Francé, now will you tell me what’s going on?!’
Francesca stood frozen to the spot, only her trembling hands and wide eyes conveying the shame and fear that rattled through her. Then it all began pouring out of her in a devastated whisper. ‘What was I thinking? I’ve done a terrible thing, Nonna!’
Maria’s brightly startled look turned to deep worry. ‘What did you do?’ She stepped forward, tucking the spoon into her apron pocket.
‘Papà’s sign . . .’ Francesca began pacing the kitchen, as if the movement might dispel some of her panic. With the paper still in her grasp, she breathed, ‘I’ve entered us into the festa.’
Maria’s hands took flight. ‘But how?!’
Francesca closed her chocolate-brown eyes. ‘I lied.’
‘About what?’ Maria caught Francesca’s shoulder and spun her around to face her.
‘That’s what I would like to know.’ A concerned voice drew both women to turn in unison, quickly doubling the fear stockpiling in Francesca’s stomach. There, leaning over the serving ledge, was Elena. She fixed her stern gaze upon her daughter. ‘What have you lied about, Cesca?’ She left the counter and came into the kitchen through the saloon doors.
‘Mamma, I . . .’
‘Explain what just happened out there.’
‘You saw—?’
‘All I could do was watch through the dining hall window. Tell me.’
