Chapter 15 Marco
Marco
The email from André my VP of service and training lands in my inbox at six forty-three in the morning while I’m watching Ben eat her conchiglie al burro.
Subject: Media Issue (Urgent)
Calder Kells spotted at Pane e Bosco dawn shift. Staff says he’s been there twice this week. He’s also been spotted at different locations. Always asking questions.
Fuck.
I open the attachment. Security stills from three different bakery locations. Same lanky bastard in each one. Calder Kells. Food critic for The Metropolitan Ledger. The kind of writer who thinks destroying someone’s life’s work counts as journalism.
He’s nursing espressos at our counters like he’s got all the time in the world. Chatting up baristas. Taking notes on his phone. Probably recording conversations without consent because he’s that kind of asshole.
“Daddy?” Ben’s looking at me. Her fork is suspended mid-air. “You’re making the angry face.”
I force my expression to soften. “Sorry, piccola. Work thing. Nothing to worry about.”
She goes back to her pasta. Rosa shoots me a look from the stove that says handle your shit away from the kid.
She’s not wrong.
But I tap out a reply to André anyway.
Conference call in twenty. Loop Gianna and Elena.
Then I text Valentina, my personal assistant.
Clear my morning. Media crisis.
Her response is immediate: Dad blocks are non-negotiable.
I know. I’ll be done by school run.
Three dots. Then: You better be.
I pocket my phone and focus on Ben. Watch her count the shells on her fork before each bite. One of Jess’s tricks. Grounding through counting. It works better than anything the therapist suggested.
Jess.
Fuck.
There she is in my head again. Where she’s been living rent-free since the carriage house. Since Vegas, if I’m being absolutely honest with myself. When I should have been focusing on my wife.
I force the thought, and the guilt, away.
I succeed. Mostly.
But Jess comes bubbling right back up again.
I can still feel her under my hands. Still taste her on my tongue. Still hear the way she said my name when she came apart.
Stop.
Ben is right here. This is not the time.
Except it’s never the time and my brain doesn’t give a shit about appropriate moments.
“All done,” Ben announces.
“Good job.” I clear her bowl. “Go brush your teeth. We leave in fifteen.”
She slides off her chair and runs upstairs. Rosa starts the dishwasher without a word.
My phone buzzes. Gianna. My COO.
Kells hit Fioretta last night as well. Tried to walk in during family meal service. Matteo turned him away but he got photos through the window.
Photos. Of course he did.
Another text.
He’s fishing for a narrative. Thinks something’s wrong.
Nothing is wrong. Revenue is up. Reservations are solid. Staff retention is the best it’s been in years thanks to the Parent Lounge and our family policies.
But Kells doesn’t care about facts. He cares about clicks. And a “fallen idol” story sells better than “competent restaurateur continues being competent.”
The conference call connects at seven sharp. Gianna’s video feed shows her in the FHG office. Elena’s on audio only from her car. André is at Osteria Fiore doing pre-service prep.
“Walk me through it,” I say.
Gianna pulls up a spreadsheet. “Kells has visited four properties in the last week. Pane e Bosco twice. Fioretta once. Osteria once. He’s asking staff about morale. Menu changes. Whether you’re present. Whether standards have slipped.”
“Have they?”
“Fuck no.” André’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Our Michelin star is secure. Service scores are up. We’re killing it.”
“Then what’s his angle?”
“You,” Gianna says bluntly. “He thinks you’ve lost your edge. That you’re distracted.”
Distracted. Right.
If only he knew what’s actually distracting me. Jess’s mouth. Her curves. The way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. The fact I violated my own no-fraternization clause and would absolutely do it again given half a chance.
Yeah. Distracted is one word for it.
“He’s been trying to get off-record conversations,” André continues. “Cornering line cooks during smoke breaks. Offering to buy drinks after shift. Classic fishing expedition.”
Elena cuts in. “Has anyone talked?”
“Not yet. But he’s persistent. And some of the junior staff are young. They might not know better.”
I lean back in my chair. Think about this like I’m working a station during a busy shift. Hot, fast, high-pressure. When the tickets are piling up you don’t panic. You systematize.
“New protocol,” I say. “Written replies only. All media inquiries go through Elena. No off-record conversations. Period. Staff who get approached refer to the press email and walk away.”
“What if he pushes?” André asks.
“Then they repeat the script and keep walking. We’re not feeding this.”
Gianna is already typing. “I’ll draft the deflection language. Something like, ‘Please email press@fhg. We don’t comment individually.’”
“Keep it short,” Elena adds. “Don’t engage. Don’t defend. Just redirect.”
“What about access?” André sounds pissed. He should be. His kitchen is being invaded by a parasite. “He keeps trying to walk into the kitchen.”
“No back-of-house to media. Ever.” I’m not negotiating this. “Front-of-house is public facing. He can dine as a guest if he wants. But staff areas are off-limits.”
“And if he makes a reservation under a fake name?” Gianna asks.
“He can eat. He can review the food. But the second he pulls out a notepad or starts interviewing staff, security escorts him out.”
Elena hums approval. “I’ll update the house policies. Give Filepe clear parameters for removal.”
“One more thing.” I’m thinking about Ben now. About the school run. About photographers who might camp outside if Kells decides to expand his scope. “If he approaches family. If he goes anywhere near my daughter or her school. We go full legal. Harassment. Stalking. Whatever sticks.”
“Noted,” Elena says. “I’ll have a cease-and-desist ready just in case.”
The call wraps. I’ve got five minutes before school run.
I check my email. Sabrina Taylor-Maxwell, who’s been doing some PR consulting for us, sent a values note overnight for staff.
Do the work. Don’t feed the churn.
Reputation is built on substance, not soundbites.
When approached by media: smile, redirect, walk away.
Let the food speak.
Short. Clear. Exactly what we need.
I forward it to Gianna: Print and post at every property. Pre-service today.
Her reply is instant: On it.
Ben appears in the doorway with her backpack. Hair perfect. Curls bouncing. Jess did those this morning before I was even awake.
Jess who is upstairs right now. Probably in the kitchen helping Rosa. Probably looking gorgeous in jeans and a t-shirt. Probably completely unaware that I’m down here thinking about her instead of the crisis I’m supposed to be managing.
Fuck my life.
“Ready, piccola?”
Ben smiles. “Ready!”
“Wow, quite the energy today,” I comment.
She beams. “That’s because I’m brave!”
Thank you, Jess.
We head to the garage. Jag’s waiting with the Range Rover. Filepe is already positioning at the school per the advance plan.
The drive is quiet. Ben reads her lunchbox note. I catch a glimpse of Jess’s handwriting.
Keep being brave. Frederick believes in you.
Something in my chest cracks. This woman writes notes to my daughter. Teaches her to breathe. Makes her laugh. And I want her so badly it’s physically painful.
But wanting her means risking everything. The routine. Ben’s stability. My already-shaky ability to keep my shit together.
And what about the guilt? The affront to Isotta?
Not to mention the contract we both signed. The rules we both agreed to. The ninety-day buffer that makes sure if this ever ends, we can’t immediately fall into bed again.
But how am I supposed to live like this? Knowing she’s in my house every day being competent and kind and so damn beautiful I can barely think straight.
We pull up to school. Filepe gives the all-clear signal. I walk Ben to the door. She squeezes my hand three times before letting go.
Our ritual. Started by Jess. Now ours.
“Love you, piccola.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
She disappears inside. I watch until I can’t see her anymore.
Back in the Range Rover, my phone is blowing up. Valentina sent the updated security briefing. Kells has been flagged at all properties. Staff are being briefed on the deflection script. Filepe added a note about perimeter awareness.
Another text comes through.
Jess.
Ben forgot Frederick this morning. I’ll bring him at pickup.
I stare at the message. She’s texting about a stuffed snail. It’s completely innocent. Completely professional.
And all I can think about is her mouth on mine in the carriage house. Her hands in my hair. The sounds she made when I was inside her.
Thanks, I type back.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally: Are you okay? You seemed tense at breakfast.
Tense. That’s one word for it.
Work stuff. Handled.
Okay. Let me know if you need anything.
I almost laugh. What I need is to stop wanting her. What I need is to focus on the media threat instead of mentally undressing my daughter’s nanny. What I need is to figure out how to exist in the same space as Jess without violating every boundary we set.
What I need is impossible.
I’m good, I lie.
The dots appear, disappear.
No response.
I pocket my phone and tell Jag to take me to FHG headquarters.
Time to lock down the properties. Time to make sure Kells doesn’t get a single fucking quote he can twist. Time to protect what I’ve built.
And time to stop thinking about Jess.
At least until tonight when she’s back in my kitchen doing the evening routine with Ben. Close enough to touch. Far enough to make me insane.
I take a deep breath.
I’m a professional.
A businessman.
A father who keeps his priorities straight.
I’m not distracted.
Not even a little bit.
The lie tastes like sour latte but I swallow it anyway. Because that’s what you do when the heat is on and the tickets are piling up.
You work the station. You keep your head down. You don’t let them see you sweat.
And you sure as hell don’t let some parasitic critic or your own inappropriate desires burn down everything you’ve worked to build.