Chapter 3
Luca’s heart was still beating a fraction too hard as he walked down the block to his cousin’s sandwich shop.
Maybe it was because he’d nearly been hit while crossing the street.
Or maybe it was the way the man in the driver’s seat had met his stare and hadn’t flinched.
Hadn’t backed down, while he’d lectured him about what a crosswalk was, even after Luca had pinned him with his most effective glare.
The one that silenced even the best of them, even his own family, most of the time.
It had been hard to get a full impression since Luca had only seen him through the windshield, heart racing at the near miss, and then through the side window, once he’d rolled it down, but the small snapshots he was left with showed him plenty to like.
Big hazel eyes hot with challenge. Soft pink lips. Hair covered by a bright purple beanie embroidered with a rainbow flag. A thin frame but surprisingly strong, if the toned arms peeking out from underneath his T-shirt sleeves were any indication.
Luca shouldn’t have found him appealing at all. After all, he’d nearly killed him. But, an annoying voice in his head added, he wasn’t wrong, you weren’t on the crosswalk and you were looking at your phone.
He’d been absorbed in an email from one of Nonna’s regular suppliers, something about veal going up in price per pound, and he’d been reading the email while mentally calculating what that was going to do their bottom line, when he’d felt rather than heard or saw the car come to a screeching halt in front of him.
Okay, yes, he shouldn’t have been crossing there. He shouldn’t have been on his phone.
But did he need to be lectured, too?
Luca didn’t think so.
Especially not with such a smug, superior air.
Especially not by someone who looked like they played with toddlers for a living or knit sweaters for orphans or owned one of the ridiculously large number of bed-and-breakfasts dotting this town.
He’d tried to book a room at one of the larger hotel chains, but all of them were much further out of town. Finally, after worrying about Wi-Fi, electrical outlet availability, shitty mattresses, and terrible water pressure, he’d booked the best-rated one.
The Sweetheart Inn, it was called. Luca had barely gotten an impression of a huge Victorian with a pristine white wraparound porch and all the delicate woodwork picked out in various shades of pink and red last night when he’d come in near to midnight after driving in from Charleston.
But the bed had been surprisingly comfortable, the Wi-Fi faster than he’d anticipated, and the shower even better than the one Luca had at home.
And the muffins? He’d devoured three at breakfast and tried not to feel guilty when he’d asked the lady staffing the dining room if there was a gym nearby that offered a temporary pass.
If he was going to stay here for a few weeks, and the baked goods continued to be this irresistible, he was going to need one.
Giana had told him via text she and Enzo would meet him at the sandwich shop at ten thirty, right as they opened for the day’s business.
He’d nearly texted back and said, eight or nine is better, but he hadn’t, because part of diagnosing the problems was seeing them in their element. How did the business normally run, not just when big bad Luca came to visit?
On the plane ride over, he’d done some rudimentary research. The deli’s Google reviews were not great, and there weren’t many of them, almost none of them from locals, which was worrisome.
Also, Luca wished he’d been more aware, when they were in their development stages, just where Giana and Enzo were planning on opening, because the location was not ideal, off Main Street and tucked away down a side street, with far less foot traffic than they’d get if they were on the main thoroughfare through town.
Arriving at the shop, he perused the outside. He was struck by a certain lack of charm as he stood in front of the shop. The sign was not great, but not terrible either, and could use some improvement. Even the windows outside were dirty and looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in months.
Nothing like the bakery he’d passed a few blocks back that took up one whole corner on one of the busiest parts of Main Street.
He’d had a feeling the Sweetie Pie’s Bakery and Cafe was Nonna’s Deli stiffest competition, and from everything he could see, he understood exactly why Enzo and Giana weren’t on top.
He pushed open the door and waited for the inevitable smell of delicious food to waft over him.
But there wasn’t any.
Nothing at all. No aroma whatsoever.
Luca hesitated just inside the door, glancing around, at the basic but uninspired décor; they had the same traditional red-and-white checked tablecloths at their own Italian deli and also at the flagship Nonna’s restaurant, but they were crisper there, and offset by modern lighting and sensibilities, combining the old with the new.
But here, without those key updates, the inside just felt plain and old-fashioned.
And empty. He looked, down to the smart watch on his wrist, where yes, it said it was indeed ten thirty in the morning on the dot.
As he waited for someone—anyone—to arrive, Luca continued to look around, taking in every detail and making a whole list of mental notes.
The menu was above the counter, and Luca was surprised to see how beautiful it was. This was actually the foundation of the restaurant and it should have been the focal point. Instead it was tucked away, hidden from the doorway behind a large refrigerated case holding bottled drinks.
Originally it must have been a large chalkboard, but the edges had been carefully sanded down, buffed to a satin shine, and a glossy finish added until the wood glowed.
The menu itself, every item on it Luca recognized as well as his right hand, wasn’t written, but drawn with quirky imagination and a real charm and flair, each letter with its own personality.
It was the only original piece in what felt like a poor, cheap copy of the Nonna’s brand.
He cleared his throat, loudly, and just when he’d given up hope on anyone showing up, a small woman with dark hair liberally streaked with gray emerged from the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. She wore a spotless red apron, long on her short frame.
Following behind her was a man in his mid-twenties, a sullen expression on his face and an equally pristine red apron over his white T-shirt.
“Luca, darling,” Giana said, kissing him on both cheeks after she’d reached him. “You remember Enzo, of course.”
He gave Enzo a nod, and Enzo nodded back, the resentment clear in his gaze.
Okay, so someone else was actually unhappier about him being here than he was. Good to know.
“Are you not opening today?” Luca asked. Trying for casual. But the surprise in Giana’s face probably meant he hadn’t achieved it.
“Of course we are.”
Luca frowned. “Are you . . .” He hesitated.
He didn’t usually step so carefully around his immediate family, but he didn’t know his mother’s sister all that well.
She’d moved to the east coast thirty years ago, met a fellow Italian in New Jersey, and to the family’s dismay, he’d left her eight months pregnant and disappeared.
Luca was half-convinced he’d be found someday in the river, wearing cement shoes.
He was no good, his mother sniffed, whenever Giana’s situation came up. No good at all.
The family had come together in support of her, and that was why, Luca was sure, when she’d asked for seed money for the business with her son, Nicoletta and Matteo had made sure she got it.
But, Luca was beginning to see as he looked around the deli, maybe they should’ve been given not just the money, but additional assistance, too.
“We’re open,” Giana said firmly. “Of course we are open.”
“But you’re not . . .” Luca took a deep breath.
He hadn’t expected this to be so awkward.
He liked his aunt, at least the half a dozen times he’d met her.
He didn’t know Enzo well, but from what he’d heard of him, he wasn’t sure he’d feel the same way about him—but still it wasn’t easy to come in here and demand to know why they hadn’t started cooking yet. “Where is the food?”
“In the back of course,” Giana said, shooting him a confused expression. “We have a full commercial kitchen.”
A tense moment followed. He finally decided if he wasn’t going to be honest, there was no point in him flying all the way out here. Plus, this had his Nonna’s name on the front of the building, and he wasn’t going to tolerate anything less than perfection. Same as he did at home.
“But I can’t smell it,” Luca finally said.
“Oh, oh,” Giana said, with a chuckle. “We cook every few weeks. And then freeze everything. Just heat things up to order. Come in the back, and you will see.”
Luca followed, silent, but ninety-nine percent sure that he hated this plan.
Giana showed him the walk-in fridge.
Then the freezer. Loaded with bins and bins of red sauce and meatballs. Chicken and eggplant parm. Lasagna in pans stacked high.
He took in the bags of bought sourdough and focaccia.
Tried not to let the shock show on his face, but it was there, rippling inside him.
Surely his mother had imparted the basic expectations of using the family name. Fresh ingredients, freshly prepared, always. Bread baked in their own kitchens. Sauce made from scratch every morning.
Even Gabriel and Lorenzo, with the limited resources they had in their food truck, did it right.
“So,” Luca said heavily after Giana finished the tour, “what is the biggest problem?”
She wrung her hands, looking devastated. “Business is . . .not good. We’ve had to reduce staff, change suppliers several times to find better deals, and still . . .not good.”
“And getting worse,” Enzo supplied dryly, speaking up for the first time since Luca had appeared.
Giana shot her son a look. “Enzo manages things here, day to day.”
“I see,” Luca said. Thought that maybe he did.