Chapter 52
Marco
Iwake to the smell of lavender in my sheets and Jess’s warm body pressed against my good shoulder. As usual, my mind immediately begins to catalog everything that’s wrong. The shoulder’s still tender. The scar tissue pulls when I move too fast. The—
Wait.
Fuck it.
She’s here.
That’s what matters.
I press a kiss to her temple and she stirs. Her eyes flutter open and I catch the exact moment she remembers where she is. A smile spreads across her face.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning yourself.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb. “Ben gets back in an hour.”
Her whole face lights up. “Really?”
“Really.” I check my phone. Text from Jag: Package inbound. ETA 58 minutes.
Package. Like my daughter is a goddamn delivery. But I get it. Operational language keeps things clean. Keeps Ben safe.
Jess is already moving. She throws on one of my shirts and her jeans from yesterday. I watch her dress with the kind of hunger that’s going to get me in trouble if I don’t redirect it toward something productive. Like coffee. Or reviewing the security protocols for today’s event.
Instead I grab her wrist and pull her back to the bed. She laughs, that bright sound that cuts through all the shit in my head. I kiss her thoroughly. The kind of kiss that makes promises I fully intend to keep.
“We have time,” I tell her.
“Marco.” She’s breathless. Pupils blown. “Ben will be here soon.”
“Fifty-six minutes.” I nip at her lower lip. “I can work fast.”
She shoves at my chest, still laughing. “Coffee first. Then we’ll see.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, I make espresso while Jess raids the fridge. She pulls out ingredients like she owns the place. Eggs. Butter. The good cheese. I lean against the counter and watch her move through my space with easy confidence. Like she belongs here.
Because she does.
My phone buzzes. Email from that fucking vulture Kells.
Subject line: Follow-up: Owner recovery timeline?
I delete it without reading.
“Another one?” Jess asks. She’s cracking eggs into a bowl.
“Same parasite. Different angle.” I drain my espresso in one swallow. “He’s like mold. Keep scraping him off but he always comes back.”
She stops whisking. Turns to face me. “What if we flip the script?”
“How?”
“Invite the Editor-in-Chief to observe one Family Meal,” she says. “Not Kells. His boss. No cameras. Just a voice recorder. And no quotes from anyone under eighteen. We show them what we’re actually building.”
I consider this. It’s smart. Gives us control of the narrative without feeding the machine. Takes the power away from Kells and puts it in more reasonable hands.
“Elena will need to draft terms,” I say slowly.
“Obviously.” Jess returns to her eggs. “But it beats playing whack-a-mole with every intrusive question.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Elena: Need airtight observer agreement for press. One EIC visit to Family Meal. Terms: voice recorder only, no cameras, no BOH access, no quotes from minors or private citizens on-site, full NDA. Can you draft by noon?
Her reply comes back in thirty seconds: On it.
I set the phone down and move behind Jess. Wrap my good arm around her waist. She leans back into me and I breathe in that lavender scent that’s becoming as familiar as my own kitchen.
“You’re brilliant,” I tell her.
“I know.” She tilts her head to give me access to her neck. “Now let me finish these eggs before they burn.”
The front door opens exactly fifty-seven minutes later. Ben’s voice echoes through the foyer. “Daddy? Are you home?”
“Kitchen, piccola!”
Footsteps thunder toward us. Then Ben bursts through the doorway and freezes. Her eyes go wide.
“Jess?” Her voice cracks on the name.
“Hey, piccola.” Jess crouches down and opens her arms.
Ben launches herself across the room. Crashes into Jess hard enough that they both stumble. My daughter wraps her arms around Jess’s neck and holds on like she’s afraid Jess will disappear if she lets go.
“You came back,” Ben sobs into Jess’s shoulder. “You came back you came back you came back!”
“I’m here.” Jess is crying, too, now. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetie. Not ever ever again.”
I watch them hold each other and feel something fundamental click into place.
This.
This is what family looks like.
Not the sanitized, scheduled version I tried to force after Isotta died. Not the rigid routines and controlled environments.
Just two people who love each other, being present.
I did the right thing.
For once in my goddamn life, I actually did the right fucking thing.
Ben finally pulls back. Her face is blotchy and wet but she’s smiling. “Can we make a new Brave Bite?”
“Absolutely,” Jess says. “But first, breakfast. Your dad made eggs.”
“I helped,” I correct.
Jess crouches to Ben’s eye level. “Think you’re ready for scrambled eggs? It’s one of the earlier Brave Bites.”
Ben hesitates. For a second I think she’s going to ask for her usual. Conchiglie al burro. The same breakfast she’s demanded every morning for the past year. The ritual I couldn’t break even when I tried.
“Okay,” Ben says. “Let’s have eggs!”
Something tightens in my throat.
Jess did it. She actually did it.
But of course she did.
That was the whole point of Brave Bites.
To get my daughter, and other children, to step outside her anxiety-driven routine without force. Without struggle.
Just gentle invitation and the promise that trying new things doesn’t mean losing safety.
This is what good parenting looks like. And I’m watching a masterclass.
They both turn to look at me. I must have some expression on my face because they start laughing.
Ben runs over and hugs my legs. I ruffle her wild curls and feel the tight knot in my chest loosen another degree.
Yeah.
This is right.
The week moves fast after that. Elena gets the EIC agreement signed within twenty-four hours.
The Editor-in-Chief shows up Monday night to observe Family Meal.
She sits on a back stool with her notebook and a voice recorder.
Sees the “cook, don’t post” signage. Takes notes when Ben does her breathing exercise for the younger kids.
No cameras. No recording. No ambush.
Just quiet observation.
Wednesday morning, a small standards piece runs. The headline reads: How Marco Fiore’s Family Meal Initiative Tackles Childhood Anxiety And Keeps His Best Employees.
It’s one of the most glowing pieces about my company I’ve read in months.
I receive a text from Gianna shortly thereafter. The Metropolitan Ledger reassigned the Fiore beat internally. Kells is sidelined.
Good.
Fuck him.
Jess’s strategy worked. Yet again.
God I really love her.
Thursday afternoon, we’re running a Parent Lounge event. Shelf Day. Basically a private pantry restock for staff families. It’s invitation-only, with wristbands applied at the door. No exceptions.
I’m helping Matteo load shelves when Jag’s voice crackles in my ear. I’m wearing a discreet security piece for the event. Force of habit.
“Subject at service alley. Kells. Approaching from east.”
Fuck.
I hand Matteo the box of pasta I’m holding. “Be right back.”
I text Elena, who’s at the event: Do you have the trespass notice?
Her reply is immediate: I do.
It’s something she’s prepared precisely for situations like these.
I text back: Meet me in the service alley.
Jess is across the room talking to André. I catch her eye but quickly look away.
She doesn’t need to be dragged into this shit. Kells is my problem. My mess to clean up.
I head toward the exit alone.
Footsteps behind me. I glance back. Jess is following anyway.
My first instinct is to wave her off. Keep her away from the ugliness. The same controlling bullshit that’s been my default for years.
But fuck that. She’s not some delicate garnish I need to protect. She’s my partner.
And if we’re doing this together, she needs to see exactly what we’re up against.
Outside, Kells is standing near the alley entrance. Filepe has already positioned himself between Kells and the door. Elena appears from around the corner with a folder.
“Two minutes!” Kells shouts as we approach. “Off the record. That’s all I’m asking.”
I keep my voice even. The way I used to talk to line cooks who fucked up. “Written replies only. You know the rules.”
Elena hands a paper to Filepe.
The trespass notice.
Filepe steps forward to serve it.
“And now you’ve got it in writing,” Jess says.
Kells takes the paper but doesn’t look at it. He’s still staring at me.
“Two minutes!” His voice gets desperate. “Please!”
I wave down Jag and Filepe. Walk right up to Kells with Jess at my side.
This close, I can see the desperation in his eyes. The hunger. He needs a story. Needs it the way a junkie needs his next fix.
Too fucking bad.
“You’re lucky I’m too classy to punch you in the face,” I tell him. My voice is dead calm. “I say again. Written replies only. Now stay the fuck away from my business and my family.”
Kells smirks. Opens his mouth to respond.
Jess steps forward before he can get a word out.
“I’m not too classy,” she says calmly. “Not at all. So I guess that means I can...”
Pop.
Her right cross lands clean. Catches Kells square on the nose. Blood immediately starts flowing.
Holy shit.
Kells stumbles back, his hand pressed to his face. “What the fuck?”
I stare at Jess. She’s shaking out her hand with a satisfied expression. Like she just plated a perfect dish.
“You have quite the right hook,” I tell her.
“Thanks.” She flexes her fingers.
“Hate to be on your bad side,” I comment.
Kells recovers enough to sputter, “I’ll sue for assault!”
I smile. It’s not a nice smile. “Go ahead. I’d like that, actually.”
Because we’d counter sue for tortious interference, harassment, and trespassing.
Maybe throw in defamation for good measure, considering his “lost its beauty along with its face” bullshit.
The discovery process alone would bury him.
Every documented ambush attempt. Every off-record fishing expedition with my junior staff.
Every ghost walk-through he tried to pull. Every boundary he crossed.
Jag interposes and starts walking Kells toward the sidewalk.
I turn to Jess. She’s still flexing her hand.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Perfect.” She grins at me. “That felt amazing.”
I take her hand gently. Examine her knuckles. They’re already starting to redden. “Kitchen. Ice. Now.”
“Yes, chef.” But she’s laughing.
Inside, I wrap her knuckles in a towel filled with ice. Press a kiss to her forehead.
“Thank you,” I tell her quietly.
“For what? Punching an asshole?”
“For standing with me.” I cup her face with my good hand. “For seeing me. All of it. The scars. The damage. The fucked-up way I tried to protect everyone by pushing them away.”
Her eyes go soft. “Marco.”
“I love you,” I tell her. Because I do. Because she deserves to hear it as many times as I can say it. “I love you and Ben more than anything. And I’m done hiding from that.”
She kisses me. Soft and deep and perfect.
When we pull apart, she’s smiling. “Good. Because I love you, too. And we’re not going anywhere.”
Through the kitchen window, I can see Ben playing with one of the staff kids. Building something with blocks. Laughing.
This.
This is what I fought off the bear for.
What I bled for.
What I’ll keep fighting for every single day.
My family. My imperfect, beautiful, hard-won family.
And anyone who tries to fuck with them will learn exactly how protective a scarred chef can be.