Page 50 of Savage Ambition

“Sometimes I have dreams about back then,” he continued, “but I don’t know if they’re genuine memories or things I’ve made up.”

I picked up a pinch of flour, letting it fall through my fingers. “Whether you remember every detail or nothing at all doesn’t change the fact that it happened. You carry those experiences in ways that go beyond memory.”

Raphael abandoned his pasta making, turning to face me. “But what if I forget completely? What if someday, I can’t recall anything from before?”

I stopped what I was doing to give him my full attention. “The most important thing for you to remember is the people who loved you would be proud of who you’ve become. That’s what matters.”

His eyes searched mine, hungry for reassurance. “You think so?”

“I know so. You were loved then. You’re loved now. That never changes.”

He nodded, returning to his pasta. “Is that why you make these recipes? To remember?”

“Yes, because food connects us to our past in ways nothing else can.” My admission felt dangerous but necessary. Raphael needed to know there was more to our identity than what Salvatore had forced on our lives. “Let’s finish these before the dough dries out.”

We returned to our work, Raphael’s technique improving with each piece. After we had filled a tray with agnolotti, I set the water to boil while preparing the sauce.

“Can I help with that, too?” he asked, watching me melt butter in a pan.

“Absolutely.” I handed him fresh sage leaves. “Remove these from the stems and chop them finely.”

As he worked, I added sherry to the butter, letting it reduce before adding cream. The kitchen filled with rich, nutty aromas that transported me back to Sunday dinners in our old home.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Raphael observed, sliding the chopped sage toward me.

“What thing?”

“You disappear somewhere else in your head.” He studied me. “Where do you go?”

I added the sage to the sauce, watching it infuse the cream with flecks of green.

“To another kitchen,” I admitted. “Warmer. Smaller. Filled with more laughter.”

Raphael sighed. “I wish those memories hadn’t faded.”

I stirred as I considered what was safe to share. “When you were about four, there was a rainy day when we couldn’t go to the park as planned. We had a picnic in the living room instead. We spread a blanket on the floor and made tiny sandwiches. You insisted on wearing your raincoat, anyway.” I smiled at the recollection. “We learned to make paper boats, and sailed them in the bathtub while the storm raged outside.”

Raphael listened, absorbing every detail. “That sounds nice.”

“It was.” I tested the sauce, adding a pinch of salt. “Life was good.”

The water came to a boil, and I added our handmade agnolotti to the pot.

“These only need about one to three minutes,” I explained. “Fresh pasta cooks much faster than dried.”

Raphael watched the pasta bob in the water. “Dante?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” His voice was thick with emotion. “For remembering. For telling me. For everything.”

I drained the pasta. “You’re my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

I finished the dish, plating the agnolotti and pouring the sherry cream sauce over them. A sprinkle of Parmesan and fried sage leaves completed the presentation.

“It’s beautiful,” Raphael said as I placed the plates on the dining table. He brought the drinks. “Let’s see if it tastes as good as it looks.”

We sat across from each other at the massive table designed to seat twelve.