Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My stomach growls as I wander through the Feretti mansion. After that tense conversation with Damiano about the gala, food seems like the only logical comfort. The smell hits me before I even reach the kitchen—something sweet and buttery that makes my mouth water instantly.
I follow my nose down the hallway, pushing through the swinging door to find Ettore hovering over the marble counter, flour dusting his apron and a bit of his beard. The kitchen is warm and filled with the scent of baking pastry and cinnamon.
"Whatever that is, it smells incredible," I say, making Ettore look up from his work.
His face splits into a wide grin. "Ah, Mrs. Feretti! Come, come." He gestures me over with flour-covered hands. "You have excellent timing. These are almost ready."
I move closer, peering at the golden-brown pastries cooling on a rack. They're shaped like little twists, glistening with what looks like sugar and something else I can't quite identify.
"What are they?" I ask, breathing in the heavenly aroma.
"Sfogliatelle," Ettore announces with pride.
"Mr. Damiano's favorite since he was a boy.
His nonna's recipe." He wipes his hands on his apron, leaving white streaks across the fabric.
"The shell is crisp, like many layers of paper, and inside—" he makes a chef's kiss with his fingers, "—sweet ricotta filling with orange zest and cinnamon. "
My stomach growls again, louder this time, and Ettore laughs.
"Have you tried them before?" he asks, already reaching for a plate.
I shake my head. "Never. Not even in Florence."
Ettore looks positively scandalized. "Never? This is a crime!" He carefully lifts one of the pastries with a spatula. "They need only a few more minutes to cool properly, but for you, we can wait. Then you try your first sfogliatella made the proper way."
I smile, genuinely this time. There's something so comforting about Ettore's enthusiasm for food.
"I'd love to try one," I say, pulling up a stool at the counter.
I settle onto the barstool, watching Ettore arrange the pastries with loving care. The kitchen feels like the heart of this massive mansion—warm and fragrant when the rest of the place feels cold and sterile.
"How long have you worked for the Ferettis?" I ask, genuinely curious. There's something about his fatherly demeanor that makes me let my guard down, just a little.
Ettore glances up, flour dusting his beard. "Twenty-seven years now," he says with pride in his voice. "Came here from Tuscany when I was just a young man. Twenty-three, full of dreams about America." He chuckles, shaking his head at the memory.
"What brought you to them specifically?" I ask, tracing a pattern in the flour dusted on the counter.
"Ah, that's a story." Ettore checks the pastries with practiced fingers.
"Not quite cool enough yet, pazienza." He leans against the counter.
"I came to New York to work at a restaurant in Little Italy.
Very fancy place, or so I thought then." His blue eyes twinkle.
"One night, Damiano's father came in with his wife—beautiful woman, looked just like Lucrezia.
They ordered things not on the menu, and the chef, he went crazy with anger. "
Ettore pantomimes an explosion with his hands. "But me? I said, 'I make it.' The old Don, he liked that. Three months later, he offers me double to cook just for his family." He pats his slightly round belly. "Twenty-seven years later, still here."
"You've known Damiano since he was a child, then," I say, trying to picture a younger version of my stone-faced husband.
"Si, since he was nine. Enzo was seven. Piccola Lucrezia wasn't born yet." Something softens in his expression. "After their parents were killed, cooking was the only way I could help those children. Food is comfort, yes? Every sauce, every dish—it speaks of home."
The casual mention of their parents' murder catches me off guard. I hadn't known that part of their history.
"I didn't realize their parents were killed," I say quietly.
Ettore's expression clouds. "Terrible thing. Damiano found them." He crosses himself quickly. "After that, he changed. Had to become the man of the house overnight."
He straightens up suddenly, as if remembering himself. "But enough sad stories! These are ready now." He places a pastry on a small plate and sets it before me with a flourish. "Your first sfogliatella, signora. A momentous occasion!"
The pastry is still warm, the shell crackling under my fingers as I pick it up.
I take a bite of the sfogliatella, and the delicate pastry shatters beneath my teeth. The contrast between the crisp outer shell and the creamy, sweet ricotta filling is incredible. A hint of orange and cinnamon bursts across my tongue, and I can't hold back a soft moan of pleasure.
"This is amazing," I tell Ettore, covering my mouth with my hand as I speak.
His face lights up with pride. "You see? This is real Italian cooking."
I'm about to take another bite when the kitchen door swings open with such force it bangs against the wall. Lucrezia rushes in, her dark hair flying behind her like a banner.
"I smelled them from upstairs!" she announces, her eyes landing on the cooling rack of pastries. "Ettore, you beautiful man, you made sfogliatelle!"
Ettore chuckles, already reaching for another plate. "Just in time, piccola. I was giving your sister-in-law her first taste."
"Your first?" Lucrezia's eyes widen as she slides onto the stool beside me. "What do you think? Aren't they the best thing ever?"
I nod, taking another bite. "I've never had anything like it."
Lucrezia accepts her pastry from Ettore with the enthusiasm of a child receiving candy. "Damiano used to bribe me with these when I was little. One sfogliatella for every A on my report card." She takes a big bite, closing her eyes in bliss. "Worth studying for."
Ettore places a small espresso beside Lucrezia's plate. "The perfect pairing," he says with a wink.
"So," Lucrezia says between bites, turning to me. "Damiano told me we need to go shopping for the gala." She licks a bit of sugar from her thumb. "He said you need something 'appropriate' which is his code for 'expensive and conservative.'"
I roll my eyes. "Of course he did."
"Don't worry." Lucrezia grins mischievously. "We'll find something that meets his standards but still looks hot. When do you want to go? We could head to Madison Avenue after this."
"Today works for me," I reply, finishing my pastry.
"Perfect!" Lucrezia claps her hands together, leaving powdered sugar fingerprints on her palms. "We'll hit Saks first, then maybe Bergdorf's. Oh, and we have to stop at La Perla."
Ettore clears his throat pointedly, and Lucrezia laughs. "Sorry, Ettore. I forget you're still pretending I'm twelve."
The tires of my Aston Martin crunch over gravel as I pull into the warehouse parking lot.
My headlights cut through the early evening darkness, illuminating the weathered brick exterior.
This place has been mine for fifteen years - off the books, off the grid, and perfect for handling problems without complications.
Alessio's already here, his black Maserati parked in its usual spot. I kill the engine and scan the surroundings before stepping out. Old habits.
Inside, the warehouse smells of metal and concrete. Alessio stands over a stack of crates, checking inventory against his clipboard. He straightens when he hears my footsteps.
"Numbers look right?" I ask, joining him.
"To the letter. Shipment's clean," Alessio replies, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "The Colombian product moved through faster than expected. Might need to talk about expanding the route."
I run my thumb along my bottom lip, considering the implications. "More movement means more visibility."
"Could be worth it. Profits from the last quarter are up seventeen percent." Alessio hands me the clipboard. "The Queens territory is already paying off. Easton may be a snake, but his distribution channels were solid."
I scan the figures, nodding slowly. "What about our friends in blue? Any issues?"
"Nothing Davis can't handle. Our monthly donation to the Police Benevolent Fund is working its magic." Alessio crosses his arms, shifting his weight. "Speaking of connections... I might have arranged something with Sartori as you asked."
My head snaps up. "You did?"
"Yeap." Alessio's expression remains neutral, but I catch the slight gleam in his eyes.
"Just preliminary talks. Feelers about a potential meeting. They're looking to expand their reach from Chicago, and it seems they might prefer an alliance over competition."
"The Sartoris." I let out a low whistle. Their operation in Chicago is almost as extensive as ours in New York. An alliance with them would solidify our position on the East Coast. "This could change everything."
"It's early days," Alessio cautions. "But if we play this right..."
"Keep pushing. The Sartoris are exactly what we need right now. Let me know as soon as you have something concrete."
Alessio nods, but his eyes linger on me longer than necessary. "Will do." He hesitates, then adds, "Everything okay with you, Damiano?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"You seem distracted lately." He chooses his words carefully. "Since the wedding."
I turn away, focusing on the inventory list again though I'm not reading it. "I'm fine."
"Is it Zoe?"
I don't answer immediately. The silence stretches between us, filled only with the distant hum of the ventilation system.
"It's not easy," I finally admit, my voice low. "Letting a woman into my life after Bianca."
Alessio waits, knowing better than to push.
"Years have passed and I still see her face when I close my eyes." I rub a hand over my jaw. "Now there's Zoe, in my home, challenging everything. It's not what I expected."
"Maybe it's time," Alessio says quietly. "To let yourself care about someone again."
I bark out a laugh. "That's rich coming from you. When's the last time you let a woman get close, brother?"
Alessio's mouth quirks into a half-smile. "I'm not the one who needs the advice. I know exactly what I am."
"And what am I?"
"Someone who's been punishing himself long enough." His expression softens just slightly. "You can advise others all you want, Damiano, but you never take your own advice."
Despite everything, I find myself laughing. "Look at us. The blind leading the blind."
Alessio joins in, his deep chuckle filling the warehouse. "Maybe we both need help."
"Maybe we do." I clap him on the shoulder. "But I'll stick with business advice from you. Leave the relationship counseling to someone who isn't as fucked up as we are."