2. Maybe Its The Wine, Maybe Its The Revenge
2
MAYBE IT'S THE WINE, MAYBE IT'S THE REVENGE
MACKENZIE
There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and the fact that you can't cry while eating your nonna's arancini. I'm pretty sure it's physically impossible. Something about the perfect ratio of crispy exterior to creamy risotto interior just doesn't allow for tears.
But as I walk into my family’s infamous Italian Seattle restaurant, La Famiglia, two thoughts are warring in my mind: the desire to eat my feelings and the increasingly tempting idea of crashing a certain charity gala tonight.
"Zia Mac! Zia Mac!"
My wallowing is interrupted by Sofia's twins, Marco and Luna, who barrel into me at waist height. At eight, they're the spitting image of their father - all long limbs and curly dark hair - but they've got the Gallo spirit through and through.
"Careful, miei tesori!" I steady myself against the hostess stand. "Zia's wearing her expensive suit."
"Why are you home so early?" Luna asks, brown eyes wide. "Did you finally quit that boring job?"
I wince. Out of the mouths of babes. "Not exactly, piccola. "
"Bambini! Let your aunt breathe!" Silver-haired with skin as smooth as one of her decorative table apples, Nonna Flora emerges from the kitchen like an avenging angel wielding a wooden spoon. "Marco, Luna, go do your homework in the office. Now!"
"But Nonna?—"
"Now!" She points with the spoon, and they scatter. Say what you want about Italian grandmothers, but they know how to command respect. Especially when armed with cooking implements.
"Mangia! Mangia!" Nonna immediately waves a plate under my nose. "You're too skinny. This is what happens when you work for those tech people. All computers, no carbs!"
I'm quickly surrounded by enough food to feed a small army. Or in this case, enough to feed one unemployed birthday girl's wounded pride.
The restaurant won't open for dinner service for another hour, which means I have my family's full, undivided, slightly terrifying attention.
"Nonna, I'm not too skinny. And I can't eat anymore." I pat my red suit, which is definitely feeling tighter than it was this morning. "Besides, I'm pretty sure 'death by comfort food' isn't the kind of revenge I'm looking for."
"Revenge is for people who don't have good pasta," Nonna declares, adding more parmesan to my plate despite my protests. "And birthday girls don't skip meals."
From behind the bar, my younger sister Lucia snorts, her dark bob swaying. "Yeah, about that birthday thing..." She slides me a large glass of wine. "Only you would manage to get fired on your birthday. That's some next-level bad luck, even for a Gallo."
"Thanks for the sympathy, Luce. Really feeling the sister love here." I take a sip of wine, thinking about the gala invitation still tucked in my purse. The one I'd planned to decline because I thought I'd be too busy with work.
Funny how things change.
"Hey, I poured you the expensive wine, didn't I?" She leans forward, her jet black strands falling over her green eyes. At thirty-five, Lucia got all the classic Italian beauty genes. I got... well, let's just say I'm the only Gallo who has to explain that yes, this deep brown is my natural hair color, and no, I don't know where the red came from. "So, what's the plan?"
"The plan?" I take another large sip of wine, trying to look innocent. "Other than drinking this entire bottle and binge-eating my way through Nonna's kitchen?”
"Oh no," my oldest sister Sofia—tall with stick-straight strands down to her waist—appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "That's not a plan. That's a pity party. We don't do pity parties in this family."
"Says the woman who had a three-day crying jag when her sourdough starter died," I mutter into my wine glass.
"That was different! Leonardo had been with me for five years!"
"You named your sourdough starter Leonardo?"
"Focus!" Lucia snaps her fingers. "Something's going on in that head of yours. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The same look you had when you decided to leave Roberto after he suggested you become a 'traditional wife' instead of taking that promotion." Sofia crosses her arms. "The 'I'm about to do something either brilliant or insane' look."
Roberto. The sound of my ex-husband’s name alone makes me wince.
But I shrug it off.
Turning the wince into a smile, I pull out my phone, showing them the post about Drake. "Already started on the brilliant-slash-insane plan. "
Sofia reads it aloud, her eyes widening. "Everything wrong with tech bros, wrapped in an overpriced suit." She whistles. "Damn, sorella. You don't pull punches."
"Why start now?" I reach for more arancini AKA stress balls you can eat.
"Speaking of Drake..." Lucia's got that look in her eye. The one that usually ends with me in trouble and her claiming it was "for my own good." "Isn't tonight that fancy charity gala?"
I finger the invitation in my purse. "Maybe."
"And you still have your ticket, right?"
"Lucia Valentina Gallo, I know exactly what you're thinking?—"
"What? I'm just saying what you're already thinking." She grins. "I saw that look in your eye when you walked in. You're plotting something."
"No." Sofia points her wooden spoon at both of us. "No, no, no. Remember what happened the last time you two plotted together?"
"That was fifteen years ago! How was I supposed to know the fountain wasn't chlorinated?"
"I had blue hair for a month!"
But…maybe having my sisters as accomplices in what I'm already planning wouldn't be the worst thing...
"Ladies!" Mama emerges from the kitchen like a tiny Italian storm cloud. At five-foot-nothing, Maria Gallo still manages to command any room she enters. "What is all this shouting? This is a restaurant, not a soccer stadium!"
"Sorry, Mama," we chorus, like we're teenagers again instead of grown women.
"Now," Mama pulls up a chair, her expression softening as she looks at me. "Tell me what this Drake person did exactly."
I explain the takeover, the firing, the humiliating escort out. With each detail, Mama's expression darkens like she's planning a hit. Knowing her, she probably is .
"On your birthday," she mutters. "No respect. These big companies—they forget about family, about tradition." She gestures around the restaurant. "Look at this place. Your bisnonno built it from nothing. Through wars, recessions, that terrible summer when everyone wanted fusion cuisine..." She shudders. "We survived because we stuck together."
"I know, Mama." And I do know. The weight of four generations of Gallos seems to press down on my shoulders. "But times change. Sometimes we have to adapt."
"Like Drake Enterprises adapted you right out of a job?" Lucia mutters.
"Not helping."
"Actually..." Lucia pulls out her phone. "Maybe I am helping. Look what just popped up on Instagram."
She shows me a post from Drake Enterprises' account: a photo of champagne towers being set up for tonight's gala. The caption reads: "Celebrating innovation and community at our annual charity gala!"
"Community?" Nonna scoffs. "They wouldn't know community if it served them an authentic carbonara!"
I pull out the invitation, finally laying it on the table. "So maybe someone should remind them."
My sisters' eyes light up like Christmas came early.
"I knew it!" Lucia crows. "You were planning this the whole time!"
"Planning is a strong word," I hedge. "Contemplating. Considering. Possibly fantasizing about while driving here..."
"Mackenzie Regina Gallo," Mama's using my full name, but her eyes are twinkling. "Are you thinking of crashing this fancy party?"
"Crashing is such an ugly word." I finger the embossed invitation. "I mean, technically, I was invited."
"Before they fired you," Sofia points out .
"Details." I wave my hand. "Besides, it's for charity. Really, it would be selfish of me not to go."
Luna pokes her head around the corner. "Is Zia Mac going to crash a party? Can we help?"
"Homework!" we all shout in unison, and she disappears again, giggling.
"You're teaching my children bad habits," Sofia says, but she's already reaching for her phone. "I'm calling my stylist friend. That suit needs some zhuzhing if you're going to crash a gala."
"I'm not going to crash—" I start to protest, but who am I kidding? I've been planning this since I saw those champagne flutes being unpacked. "Okay, fine. But I'm just going to make an appearance, maybe make some pointed comments about corporate ethics, and leave with my dignity intact."
Lucia cackles. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say, sorella. Now, let's talk about your hair..."
Two hours later, I'm freshly styled (thanks to Sofia's expertise), slightly buzzed (thanks to Lucia's heavy pour), and absolutely certain this is either the best or worst idea I've ever had.
"Remember," Mama fixes my collar, her eyes suspiciously bright. "You're a Gallo. We don't get mad..."
"We get even," my sisters chorus.
"Actually, I was going to say we get successful," Mama corrects them. "But in this case... maybe a little even too."
I hug her tight, breathing in the familiar scent of basil and love. "Thanks, Mama."
"Just promise me one thing?" She pulls back, cupping my face. "Whatever you do tonight, make it count."
I think about my social post from earlier, sitting there in the digital ether. About the gala that's supposed to celebrate "community" while destroying mine. About Alexander Drake's perfectly pressed suit and perfectly practiced corporate smile in the lobby earlier .
"Oh," I grab my clutch and check my lipstick one last time in the mirror behind the bar. In the reflection, I can see Marco and Luna peeking around the corner again, giving me thumbs up. Even my niece and nephew are on Team Revenge. "I plan to make it count all right."
After all, revenge, like the best recipes, is all about timing.
And tonight? Tonight, I'm feeling inspired.
"Nonna," I turn to my grandmother, who's been suspiciously quiet while aggressively kneading dough. "Any last advice?"
She looks up, flour dusting her silver hair like a halo. "Me? I would never tell you to throw champagne in some stronzo's face." She pauses, a sly smile crossing her face. "But if you did, make sure to get the expensive stuff. No sense wasting bad champagne on bad people."
"NONNA!" Sofia looks scandalized.
"What? I'm old, not dead. And nobody messes with my nipote on her birthday."
And with my family's blessing – and possibly slightly impaired judgment from Lucia's wine pours – I head out to crash a gala.
What's the worst that could happen?
(Note to self: Never ask that question again.)