Chapter 15
quindici
It wasn’t until he was lying face down on his towel with the warm breeze wafting up off the Adriatic that Alessio was able to wipe the smile off his face.
With his shirt bundled under his cheek as a makeshift pillow, he took a long breath, feeling his lungs fill and his chest expand.
His feet dug into the coarse pebbly sand, feeling it grow cooler the deeper he went.
It was a welcome reprieve from the bite of the sun, which blazed overhead, blanketing his naked back with its touch.
He mentally sifted through the events of the morning, savouring each one over again. The car ride. The donkey. The properties. The cemetery. The cherries . . .
Whatever the magic, no matter the spell, he felt drawn to Francesca.
He couldn’t deny it, and he didn’t want to, either.
His mind enjoyed returning to her, recalling and reliving a smile, a stare, the bounce of her curls.
The passion. Her fire. Her appearance in his life was unexpected, yes, but most certainly welcome.
The women in his past were often tied to work: his staff; his team; his restaurant; suppliers.
As much as he now hated to admit it, so many of those connections were founded purely on convenience.
Long hours. High stress. Being close to someone who was already there.
It took the guesswork out of dating, but also had the potential for disaster when things went wrong. And they often did.
Now, lying there on the beach in Impastino, with the prospect of a delicious summer ahead of him, Alessio felt content. Truly content. It was as if the ‘relax’ switch had finally been flicked, and he could simply let go. So he did, drifting into a doze under the southern Italian summer sun.
WHACK!
Alessio was ripped from his repose, sent flying from his towel in a daze. The volleyball that had smacked him across the back of the neck had come to rest in a sandy hollow a metre beyond him.
‘Scusaci il disturbo!’ said a lanky, long-limbed man who was bounding over the sand. He began rattling off more apologies, but Alessio stopped him with outstretched hands.
‘It’s ok. Va bene. Non parlo . . . bene . . . italiano.’
‘Ah. Turista? Americano? Inglese? Tedesco?’ While much of the man’s height derived from his spindly legs, Alessio couldn’t help but notice the length of his wafer-thin torso.
‘You are here on vacation?’ His accent was thicker than Francesca’s, less refined and rounder, pinching his consonants together.
Alessio politely rose to standing, dusting off the coarse sand. ‘Erm . . .’
Boom!
Public interrogation. He’d known he would have to start living out Francesca’s charade eventually, but hadn’t really prepared for it.
Steeling himself, he said, ‘Sort of. I’m here from Australia visiting cousins of mine.
I’m staying with them, and I’ll be working in their restaurant. But just for the summer.’
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.’
‘Hmm.’
It felt as if Carlo made sure to hold Alessio’s gaze for his next comment. ‘These guys, don’t trust them.’
Alessio’s eyes fixed on the pair.
Uh-oh. Here we go again. Get ready for Round Two . . .
‘The one in the black with the gut, that’s Sebastiano Bellomo. He’s as stupid as he looks. He’s a sheep. A follower.’
Alessio stifled a laugh. ‘And the guy in the blue?’ Alessio recognised him as Elio Martino, but he knew he needed to keep up appearances.
‘He’s your biggest concern.’
‘My biggest concern?’ Alessio’s eyes rolled over tall, blond Elio, who, by the look of his toned physique and impeccable manscaping, clearly had tickets on himself beyond the kitchen. ‘What’s his deal?’ he asked with feigned interest.
‘Elio Martino. One of the dirtiest, most untrustworthy men in the town.’
Alessio looked again. ‘Right. This Roman god?’
Carlo laughed. ‘He’s a force in the kitchen. They both are. And they are our competitors in the competition. It’s us four.’
Alessio nodded. This was what Francesca had said, too. ‘Us four . . .’ It’s all feeling very real now.
‘So they cook for—’
‘Sebastiano for Lu Ientu. Elio for Da Martino.’
A few things fell into place in Alessio’s mind. The encased rolling pin by the welcome stand at Da Martino. The claims of ‘superiore’. Elio thrived upon the power he had earned when he broke Giacomo’s long-standing title as winner of the competition.
Immediately, Alessio disliked Elio even more, and that, coupled with this new information from a second source, reinforced Elio’s position at the top of his mental Caution! watch list.
He returned his focus to Carlo. Goofy-looking, lanky Carlo, who was clearly an underdog here in town. ‘Thanks for looking out for me.’
‘I’m surprised Francesca hasn’t mentioned these things yet.’
‘She will go through everything in due course, I’m sure.’
Just then, behind them, the volleyball players cried out and Carlo and Alessio both turned to watch.
It seemed a dramatic shot had missed its target.
While he looked on, Alessio noticed Elio staring coldly at him.
It was the same brand of steely and calculating as when they had met in the piazza, and it communicated You?
Again? and Watch yourself! all in one look. It was loaded.
Then the moment was broken when Sebastiano sidled up to Elio, clearly whispering something. Elio gave his companion a sly nod, the left corner of his mouth twisting into a smile.
‘Keep an eye on him,’ Carlo reiterated quietly. ‘But keep an extra eye on Francesca when he’s around.’
Something in Alessio’s stomach lurched. ‘Francesca? Why? Are they involved?’
‘Ha!’ Carlo couldn’t restrain his guffaw. ‘Absolutely not! We all grew up together. School. A small town, no? Their fathers shared a terrible – how do you say, rivalità?’
‘Rivalry.’
‘Yes, rivalry. Allora, that rivalry extended to Francesca and Elio. Both are geniuses in the kitchen. But Elio has never forgotten how his father couldn’t out-do poor Giacomo.
And now, Elio’s passion is directed at beating Francesca.
Perhaps in his father’s honour too. He loves it that she herself is not allowed to compete in the festa. ’
This extra layer of context clarified in Alessio’s mind why Francesca had been desperate enough to nominate him for the competition.
She had no control whatsoever over the next phase of Trattoria dei Fiori’s legacy because she, Maria and Elena were all women.
As outdated and unfair as it was in this day and age that they weren’t allowed to compete, she needed a man.
Him. And the timing of his arrival had been perfect.
Now, Alessio felt the weight of what his ‘Yes’ truly meant.
It wasn’t just about this year’s festa. It was about all the feste that had come before – and whatever the future would hold for them.
For her. She wanted nothing more than to defend the glory of her own pasta champion.
Her papà. That responsibility now rested on his shoulders.
Alessio sighed. ‘Elio’s father is also gone?’
‘Sì, a few years ago now. He was much older. Which is why there were a number of years when Elio and Giacomo were competitors in the festa. It was brutal. The pasta version of a battle in the Colosseum.’ He gave a solemn nod.
‘I do my best to help Francesca when I can. We both do, my sister and I. But Elio is very . . .’ Carlo shrugged.
‘Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.’ Alessio saw nothing but sincerity behind Carlo’s light brown eyes. ‘Francesca’s lucky to have a friend like you in town.’
‘You will quickly learn who the trustworthy ones are.’ A whistle from the game broke the moment, and Alessio saw that Carlo was being beckoned to return. ‘Would you like to play?’
The competitive corner of Alessio’s mind kicked into gear.
He lived for competitive sports; his only outlet during all those years of working in the restaurant had been his Saturday morning soccer games.
His teammates, who he’d grown up with playing in a junior league at school, then during their youth, were the only ones who called him out on the bullshit and could put him back in his place.
Those games and that team had grounded him, allowed him to reset. He missed it.
He turned to look at the men who were now hollering and whistling at the pair. He really wanted to join them. Not just for the fun of it, but to suss out what he could from the situation and about his competitors. But something stopped him. A small voice of reason tethered him to the sand.
This sounds a little too close to home. No, not yet. Keep some distance. A little restraint never hurt anyone.
‘Thanks Carlo. Maybe next time. I hadn’t anticipated such a long sleep.’ He looked down the length of his bronzing arms and chest. ‘I’m cooked enough for today.’
Carlo waved the situation off. ‘We are often down here when we aren’t working the lunch shift. Next time.’
‘One hundred per cent.’ Alessio paused for a second, paying particular attention to how he phrased the next question. ‘But tell me this: if some of these guys are as bad as you say, how come you’re here playing with them?’
Carlo reached out and gave Alessio’s shoulder a friendly push. ‘You’ll learn, Alessio. This is a small town. Everyone talks. Everyone knows everything. This is simply to save face. To curb the intimidation. You know, keep your friends close . . .’
‘But your enemies closer,’ Alessio finished.
‘You got it. I hope to see you soon, Alessio. Ciao.’
And with that Carlo turned and rejoined the game, sharing in some banter with an equally tall and slim man on his team. Alessio reasoned that they must be related.
But then he caught sight of Elio again, who had resumed his icy glare at Alessio through the weave of the volleyball net. Alessio felt a chill down his spine.
This guy’s got you on his radar already. Better play the game right. For Francesca’s sake . . .