Chapter 22 Marco
Marco
I’m sitting in my FHG office at eight in the morning reviewing contractor bids. Kitchen and Parent Lounge upgrades for Osteria Fiore.
You know, the kind of quiet infrastructure work that keeps people working at your restaurants instead of burning out somewhere else.
Rahul’s already approved the budget. André’s coordinated the timeline. Valentina has the invoices coded under facilities and community use. Nothing that screams PR stunt or damage control.
Nothing Kells can spin into his bullshit decline narrative.
But that’s not why I’m staring at these line items like they hold the answer to world peace.
I’m staring because I can’t stop thinking about Jess’s mouth.
About how she tasted when I kissed her last night. How her breath hitched when my thumb found her jaw. How she said we shouldn’t and I said we won’t and then we almost did anyway.
How I had to physically remove myself from that situation before I violated every clause in her contract again.
Fuck.
I drag both hands through my hair and force myself to focus on the spreadsheet.
Induction burner carts. Cool touch surfaces. Lockable supply cubbies. Sensory friendly dimmers and sound baffles.
Good shit. Necessary shit.
The kind of upgrades that make a kitchen run smoother without anyone noticing until they’re gone.
Kind of like Jess.
She shows up. Does the work. Makes everything better without needing applause or a fucking Instagram story about it.
Ben’s anxiety has dropped. Morning routines flow. The house feels less like a pressure cooker and more like a place people actually want to be.
And all I can think about is how badly I want to pin Jess against a wall and finish what we started. It’s good, I suppose. It keeps the guilt about Isotta away.
But still...
My phone buzzes. Text from Valentina, my PA.
Contractor needs final approval on the lactation corner build. Sign off?
I reply immediately. Approved. Keep it off the marketing calendar.
Three dots. Then: Done. Filepe’s scheduling after-hours install. Luis will disable guest cams during work.
Good.
That’s the whole point. Do the work. Don’t announce it. Let the results speak instead of farming engagement off other people’s need for dignity.
Another buzz comes from my phone. This time it’s Matteo.
Test kitchen needs you. New pasta pull isn’t working.
Be there in ten, I reply.
I close the laptop. Stand. Try to shake off the restless energy that’s been crawling under my skin since last night.
Since I walked away from Jess and called Ethan for open mat because rolling hard on the mats and getting the shit kicked out of me (and kicking ass in return) was the only way to burn off the need clawing through me.
When I went home, I lay awake thinking about her breathing technique. The one she taught Ben. The one I use in board calls now because it actually fucking works.
The one that reminds me every single time that she’s not just good at her job.
She’s essential.
And that terrifies me.
Because essential means I need her.
And needing someone means I can lose them.
Just like I lost Isotta.
Fuck. It’s a vicious circle.
Honestly I’m not sure if it’s guilt or fear that’s holding me back.
Probably both.
I grab my jacket and head toward the test kitchen. The hallway is quiet. Most of the ops team won’t be in until nine. Just me and the early crew prepping for service.
The test kitchen smells like garlic and burnt butter when I walk in. Matteo’s at the stove scowling at a pan like it personally insulted his mother.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
He gestures at the pasta. “Texture’s off. Too slick. Sauce won’t grab.”
I move to the station. Check the water ratio. The timing. The pull technique.
There.
“You’re overcooking by thirty seconds,” I tell him. “And your emulsion broke because you added the pasta water too fast.”
He mutters something in Italian that I don’t catch but definitely involves questioning my ancestry.
I almost smile.
This I can fix. A broken emulsion. Timing adjustments. Mise en place that needs tightening.
This is control that actually matters.
Not the kind Gideon called me out on yesterday.
If you confuse control with care, you’ll lose both.
The words have been sitting in my chest like a stone since he said them.
Because he’s right.
I know he’s right.
I’ve been confusing the two since Isotta died. Maybe even before that. Tightening my grip on everything I could reach because if I just controlled enough variables then nothing bad could happen.
Would happen.
Except bad things happen anyway.
And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.
Matteo pulls another batch. This time it’s perfect. Sauce clings. Texture’s right. He plates it and slides it across the counter. “Try, capo.”
I taste. Nod. “That’s it. Write it down before you forget the timing.”
He’s already scribbling notes.
I leave him to it and head back toward my office. Check my watch. Nine forty. Ben’s in school. Jess is back at my house. Prepping for afternoon pickup. Or working on Brave Kitchen curriculum. Or doing literally anything except thinking about me.
While I’m thinking about her constantly.
About the curve of her hip when she leans over the counter. The way her curls catch light. How her laugh sounds when Ben says something ridiculous.
How she looks when she cums.
Stop.
I force the thoughts down and pull out my phone. Open the text thread with Valentina. Clear my calendar from two to three today. Personal.
Her reply is instant. Done. Therapy? Doctor?
Neither. Just need the block.
Three dots. Then: Noted.
I pocket the phone and keep walking.
The personal block is for the conversation I need to have with myself about whether I’m going to end Jess’s employment before this gets worse.
Before I cross another line I can’t uncross.
Before Ethan finds out and kills me with his bare hands.
The thought sits ugly in my gut all that day, until finally two o’clock arrives.
My phone buzzes, reminding me of my personal time.
I make it back to my office. Close the door. Sit.
Fire her.
Let her go.
Can I really do it?
Find someone else who’s good with Ben but doesn’t make me want to violate labor law every time we’re in the same room?
Finding someone else definitely would be the smart move. The controlled move. The one that protects everyone.
But it’s also bullshit.
And I know it.
Because firing Jess isn’t about protecting her or Ben or even my friendship with Ethan.
It’s about protecting me.
From feeling something real. From wanting something I have no right to want. From the guilt that claws at me every time I think about Isotta and then immediately think about Jess in the same breath.
Control masquerading as care.
Fuck.
I stare at the wall where a photo of Ben used to hang before I moved it to my desk instead. Safer there. More contained.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Jess.
Ben asked if we can make focaccia tonight. Said she wants to count the bubbles again.
Fuck. My chest seizes like someone just squeezed all the air out of it.
Why does she have this effect on me?
I text back: Sure thing. I’ll be home by six.
Three dots. Then: Great. I’ll prep the starter.
That’s it. No subtext.
Except... there’s always subtext now.
Every text.
Every glance.
Every moment we’re in the same room pretending we didn’t fuck in that studio.
Pretending we didn’t kiss last night.
Pretending this is sustainable.
I set the phone down and lean back in my chair.
Yes, the smart move is still firing her.
But... the right move is keeping her.
And the difference between those two things is the gap I’ve been living in since Isotta died.
Smart versus right.
Control versus care.
Safety versus actually living.
I think about Ben’s face when Jess does the brave rules with her. The way my daughter’s anxiety has dropped. How she sleeps through the night now. How she smiles more.
How Jess makes our house feel like a home instead of a museum to grief and fear.
And I know right away.
I’m not firing her.
I can’t.
Not because I want her, though I do.
Not because she’s good at her job, though she is.
But because pulling her out of Ben’s life to fix my own inability to handle my feelings would be the exact kind of selfish control Gideon warned me about.
It would hurt Ben.
And I won’t do that.
I refuse to do that.
Even if it means white knuckling my way through every debrief. Every kitchen conversation. Every moment she’s close enough to touch and I have to keep my hands to myself.
Even if it means lying awake thinking about how good she tastes.
Even if it kills me.
So it’s done.
She stays.
I feel more relieved than I probably should.
I open my laptop. Pull up the final contractor invoices for the Parent Lounge. Review the line items one more time.
Wristband check. Stroller parking. Soothe kit with noise machine and ear defenders.
Quiet upgrades that make life easier without anyone needing to perform for the cameras.
The way Jess runs Brave Kitchen.
The way she parents Ben.
The way she moves through the world without needing proof it happened.
I approve the final invoice. Send it to Rahul. Text André to confirm the install schedule.
Then I close the laptop and just sit there.
Thinking about focaccia dough rising tonight. About Ben counting bubbles. About Jess’s hands in flour. About how I’ll stand too close and pretend I’m not memorizing the way she smells.
About how I’m choosing this.
The hard way.
The right way.
Fuck.
I’m totally screwed.