Chapter 2 - The Taste of Memory
Salvatore let out a booming, joyful laugh that shattered the icy atmosphere of the room like thin glass. He struck his cane against the floor twice, pointing a gnarled finger at Penelope.
"You!" Salvatore commanded in English, pointing at the chair across from him. "You stay! You serve this table!"
Martin Galloway practically tripped over his own polished shoes as he rushed forward, sweat shining on his forehead. "Mr. Moretti, sir! She is merely a back-of-house runner! Allow me to have Chloe—"
Salvatore turned his head slowly, giving Martin a look of such absolute, lethal contempt that the general manager instantly lost his voice.
"Shut up," Dominic said softly to Martin. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried the weight of an execution order. Martin took three steps back and clamped his mouth shut.
Dominic pulled out the chair for his father, then turned his gaze back to Penelope. Up close, Dominic was overwhelmingly formidable. His dark hair was brushed back smoothly, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his dark eyes burned with an intense, calculating curiosity. He looked at her tight black uniform, her full hips, her stained apron, and the absolute lack of fear in her clear hazel eyes.
"Where did you learn western Sicilian?" Dominic asked, his voice low, smooth, and dangerous.
"From a woman who would have thrown a shoe at your head for serving cold prosecco to an elder," Penelope answered flatly, without a hint of hesitation.
A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of Dominic’s lips. "Is that so?"
"It is," Penelope said, turning toward the kitchen. "I'll be right back with the bread."
In the kitchen, Chef Laurent was in a state of absolute meltdown. "She cannot serve them! She is wearing a dirty apron!"
Penelope ignored him. She untied her apron, tossed it into the laundry bin, and pulled a clean, crisp white apron from the shelf, tying it firmly around her waist. She walked over to the bread station, ignoring the gourmet sourdough loaves, and reached into her personal locker.
Every morning before her shift, Penelope baked a small loaf of traditional pane di casa using Agatha’s fifty-year-old starter, brought in a cloth napkin for her own dinner break. She sliced the warm, crusty bread thickly, drizzled it with raw, unfiltered Sicilian olive oil she bought from a small importer in Bensonhurst, and sprinkled it with coarse sea salt.
She walked back out to the dining room carrying the plain wooden board.
When she placed the bread in front of Salvatore, the old man closed his eyes and breathed in the steam rising from the crust. He picked up a piece with his trembling, calloused fingers and took a bite.
The entire restaurant watched in stunned silence.
Salvatore chewed slowly. He closed his eyes, a single tear escaping his lashes and tracing a deep ravine down his weathered cheek.
"Agatha," Salvatore murmured in awe, looking up at Penelope. "This is the taste of Agatha Romano’s kitchen. How?"
"She was my neighbor in Bensonhurst," Penelope said softly in English, so Dominic could understand. "She raised me when my mother worked double shifts. She taught me that food without history is just fuel for fools."
Salvatore turned to his son, slapping his palm against the mahogany table. "Dominic! Look at her! A real woman! Not those paper dolls you hire in your glass offices!"
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Dominic didn't break eye contact with Penelope. His dark eyes traced the curve of her waist, the soft strength in her posture, and the calm defiance resting in her eyes. "My father is very difficult to please, Penelope."
"He's not difficult," Penelope replied, looking Dominic right in the eye. "He's just lonely for things that are real."
