Chapter 5
FIVE
NADIA
I almost didn't stop at my parents' house.
Sofia's dinner was at seven, and I had a full day behind me, and roughly forty minutes to shower, change, and not arrive looking like someone who'd been on her feet since four in the morning.
My mother's text said only that Emma wasn't feeling well, which in my family's language meant anything from a sniffle to needing an airlift to a major hospital.
We may as well have had a helicopter on standby.
I knew it the moment I walked through the door and saw Emma at the kitchen table, one hand pressed to her jaw, her eyes glassy. She'd passed the point of ignoring the pain, and when she moved her hand, there was no missing the swelling on the left side of her face.
"Hey," I said, crouching in front of her. "Open up for me."
She did, reluctantly. I checked her mouth with the flashlight on my phone. Her lower gum at the very back was inflamed and possibly infected.
"How long has this been hurting?"
Emma's eyes slid sideways toward my mom, who stood in the kitchen doorway looking helpless and worn. "A week," she admitted. "Maybe two."
"Two weeks," I said, fighting to keep my voice level. "And you said nothing."
"I didn't want to make a fuss." Emma lifted her chin when she said it, desperate to handle this like a grown-up. It almost worked.
Fifteen years old and already fluent in the family language of not making a fuss.
Old enough to understand exactly what things cost, old enough to feel the weight of it, and apparently old enough to decide that suffering in silence was the adult thing to do.
Still, I couldn't blame her. Wasn't I guilty of the same behavior?
My guess was a wisdom tooth giving her grief. I couldn't see the infection yet, but I didn't need to. The swelling and the pain level told me everything. Hadn't I suffered the same thing at her age?
"She needs to see a dentist today," I said to my mom. "Not tomorrow. Today."
"Nadia, the co-pay—"
"I'll handle the co-pay." I was already pulling out my phone, searching for emergency dental clinics. "There's a place on Marchetti Street that takes walk-ins until six. I'll take her now."
"You have dinner with Daemon—"
"I'll be late." I found the clinic, got through on the second ring, and booked Emma in for 5:15p.m.
My mom stayed in the kitchen doorway while I helped Emma into her jacket, one hand still pressed to her face. Only then did I take a proper look around. The kitchen was spotless as always, but there were other signs if you knew where to look.
The name-brand coffee had been replaced with the store label. The fruit bowl sat half empty where there used to be abundance. The cautious atmosphere of a household managing on less than it needed.
My dad's hours had been cut in March. My mom's part-time position at the school district hadn't had its contract renewed. Neither of them had said anything directly. I'd figured it out from the gaps between what they mentioned and what they didn't.
The dental clinic smelled of antiseptic and the sweat of those who knew it would hurt. I sat in the waiting room while Emma was seen, scrolling through my accounts and doing math I already knew the answer to.
Pacific Tech had been twenty percent of my annual revenue. The two vendors Elevate had approached were reconsidering their supplier agreements, which meant my margins would compress.
The co-pay for the dental visit was manageable. The follow-up appointment, to address what turned out to be an impacted wisdom tooth, would cost considerably more.
Emma came out forty-five minutes later with a prescription for antibiotics and pain relief, plus a referral for oral surgery within two weeks. The receptionist handed me the paperwork with the cost estimate attached.
I folded it without looking at the number in front of Emma.
"Better?" I asked her.
"A little." She leaned into me briefly, the way she used to when she was younger. "Sorry. For not saying anything."
"Don't be." I put my arm around her. "That's what I'm here for."
I dropped her home, promised my mom I'd send the surgery referral information, and got back in the van, where I sat with my hands gripping the wheel.
I had five minutes to get to Sofia's and knew I'd be late, regardless. The familiar pressure of my other responsibilities settled a little heavier than it had that morning.
I started the engine and drove.
Sofia Ferrari's dining room was what I'd expected after seeing Daemon’s apartment. A surfeit of florals, lace doilies, and framed photographs covered every available surface. What I hadn't expected was how welcoming it felt.
"Sit, sit," said Sofia, gesturing to a chair at the small table, set with china so delicate I knew it had to be special. "Daemon, pour the wine our guest brought."
Daemon caught my eye as he opened the bottle, and something hot flickered between us. The memory of last night, of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine.
I looked away first, focusing on Sofia as she bustled back to the kitchen.
"Your home is lovely," I called after her, which wasn't altogether a lie. It was overwhelming, yes, but there was something charming about a woman this committed to her aesthetic choices.
"Lovely?" said Sofia, returning with the bowl of pasta, steam still rising from it. "It's too much, I know. But when you get to my age, you stop caring what people think. You like what you like."
She served the pasta by twirling it onto each plate with a flourish that spoke of decades of practice. The smell alone made my mouth water, that unmistakable aroma of good cheese and black pepper.
"This looks incredible," I said.
"Tastes better," said Sofia, settling into her chair with a satisfied smile. "Mangia. Eat before it gets cold."
I twirled pasta onto my fork and popped it into my mouth.
Oh.
Oh, damn.
The sauce was silky and rich without being heavy, the cheese sharp but not overwhelming, the guanciale adding the perfect amount of salt and smokiness. The pasta was al dente, with that ideal resistance when you bit into it.
This was the sort of food that made you understand why people dedicated their lives to cooking.
"Good?" asked Sofia, though her expression said she already knew the answer.
"It's perfect," I said, with no need to curb my enthusiasm. "Best carbonara I've ever had."
Sofia beamed. "See, Daemon? I told you she had good taste."
Daemon had been watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. "Never doubted it for a second."
The way he said it, low and warm, made it clear he wasn't talking about food.
"So," said Sofia, fork poised midair. "Daemon tells me you used to be in the military. Army?"
"Yes, ma'am. Ten years. Food services and logistics."
Sofia's eyes lit up. "Ah! You understand. Feeding people, it's not only the food. It's timing, organization, making sure everything comes together."
"That's it." I leaned forward, drawn in by her enthusiasm. "Most people think catering is cooking in bulk, but it's so much more. You're coordinating suppliers, managing staff, planning for every disaster."
"While making it look effortless," added Sofia with a small laugh. "Because if the guests see you panic, then they panic, and the meal is ruined."
"Yes!" I couldn't help but smile. "I learned that the hard way during my first big event in the Army. Power outage thirty minutes before service. I was ready to cry, but my sergeant told me to smile and pretend everything was fine. We served the dishes cold and called it a refreshing summer menu."
Sofia let out a full-bodied laugh, her entire face lighting up. "Quick thinking. I like that."
Daemon, who'd been quiet while we volleyed the conversation back and forth, spoke up. "Sofia used to cater big events at the church."
"Not just church," said Sofia, correcting him.
"Weddings, baptisms, feast days. For forty years, if there was a celebration in Coogan's Break, I made the food.
" Pride rang in her voice. "I taught a few restaurants in town how to make proper Italian food.
Authentic food, not that..." She waved her hand. "That Italian-inspired nonsense."
"Like what the chains serve," I said, thinking of Elevate Events and their generic menu.
"That's it!" said Sofia, pointing her fork at me. "No soul. No tradition. Food that looks Italian but tastes like nothing."
An idea was forming, small and tentative. "Have you thought about teaching classes? People would pay good money to learn authentic Italian cooking."
Sofia shrugged. "Too old for that now. Standing for hours, teaching people who don't listen..." She trailed off, but something wistful crossed her expression.
"What if you didn't have to stand for hours?" I asked carefully. "What if someone else taught, but used your recipes? Your techniques?"
Sofia studied me, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "You're thinking about your business."
"Maybe." I took a sip of wine, buying time to organize my thoughts. "I lost a major client today. The corporate contract went to a national chain. I'm trying to figure out how to compete with companies that can undercut my prices and have resources I don't."
"But they don't have Sofia's recipes," said Daemon, arching a brow.
Our eyes met, and I could see he was thinking what I was thinking. There was an opportunity here.
"I'd need to think about it," said Sofia, her response measured. "My nonna's recipes, they're family. Sacred. I don't share them with anyone."
"Of course," I rushed out. "I wasn't trying to..."
"But you," interrupted Sofia, "you understand food. You respect it. You're not looking to make it faster or cheaper. You want to make it right."
She fell silent, twirling her next forkful of pasta longer than necessary. The only sound was the clink of forks against plates.
At last, Sofia spoke. "Tell me about the company that took your contract."
I outlined the Elevate Events business model, its expansion into the region, and the systematic way they approached suppliers and clients. Sofia listened, her expression fixed except for the occasional nod or small Italian sound of disapproval.
"They want to own everything," she said when I finished. "Dominate the entire region. I've seen it before. Big companies come in, promise everything, deliver garbage."
"The problem is, small businesses like mine can't match their prices."
"You don't need to match their prices," said Sofia, her tone brooking no argument. "All you need is to be better. Offer your clients something those bastardi can't. Something authentic."
She pushed back from the table, stood with surprising energy, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Daemon and me looking at each other.
"She's scheming," he said, a smile playing at his lips. "That's her scheming face."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends on whether you're the target or the beneficiary."
Sofia returned with a large, worn notebook. "My nonna's recipes. Everything she taught me, I made a note of. Forty years' worth." She set it on the table between us with reverence, then turned to Daemon.
"I'm old, bambino. Not stupid. You hoped that if I invited Nadia to dinner, you'd get me on your side. And that we'd like each other."
Daemon had the grace to look sheepish.
"And we do," continued Sofia, turning to me. "I like you, Nadia Becker. You're smart, hardworking, and you won't let this one," she jerked her thumb at Daemon, "get away with nonsense like that."
"Sofia," protested Daemon.
"Hush. I'm talking." She swatted him and turned back to me. "I'm too old to cater events anymore. But my recipes, my knowledge, my grandson isn't interested, and they shouldn't die with me. If you can use them to fight these corporate bastardi, then we should talk."
My throat tightened at the enormity of what she was offering. "I can't ask you to..."
"You're not asking. I'm offering." Sofia's expression softened. "But not for free. If we do this, we're partners. You use my recipes, my name, and we share the profits. Fifty-fifty on any events that feature my food."
I blinked. "That's... that's very generous."
"Is it?" asked Sofia, smiling. "You do all the work. I supply the paper with instructions. Seems fair to me." She collected the empty plates. "Plus, it will drive those corporate idiots crazy when you take back your clients with Sofia Ferrari's Authentic Italian Cuisine."
Despite everything, the stress, the uncertainty, the fear, I laughed. "You're a little ruthless, aren't you?"
"Bambina, I'm a lot ruthless. You don't survive eighty-six years by being nice." She patted my hand. "Now, let's have dessert. I made tiramisu."