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Prologue
Do you remember where you were when your life changed?
How about what you were doing? I do, vividly.
I thought school was my way out of The Family. A way to escape the impossible expectations that I could never meet, no matter how hard I tried.
I was the biggest disappointment to my father and the bane of my mother’s existence. So when the opportunity to go away to culinary school in France came around, I jumped on it.
Until I got the call.
My father was dead, my mother disappeared, and I was to return immediately.
Home.
The ultimate four-letter word that is more of a curse to me, when it should have made me feel sheltered and loved.
Like the good little soldier I was, I followed the order, and I left school. I didn’t know then what a blessing that really was for me.
I do now.
* * *
One year ago
“Gianna Dragna?” I stop stirring the pot and look up at the doorway the voice came from.
I’ll never get over the way the Italian people talk down to foreigners. They really do feel like Americans are beneath them. It doesn’t matter that I can trace my roots to Italy.
“Yes?” I wipe my hands clean, then excuse myself from the kitchens we are working in today.
“You have an important call in the office.” She briskly walks away from me as if she has more important things to attend to than delivering messages.
“Thank you,” I sigh and turn to go the opposite way, wondering who on Earth would be calling me.
I speak to my father once a week. On Sunday at four pm sharp, pacific standard time. The fact that it’s midnight for me doesn’t matter. What Vincenzo Dragna wants, he gets.
“Ciao, I was told I have a call?” I ask the elderly security when I enter the office of InTavola.
If this wasn’t one of the finest culinary institutes in the world and Italian, my father would have never agreed I could attend. The fact that he paid off the school to fast-track me, so I was only away eighteen months versus three years, still pisses me off. He’s robbing me of so much I could learn.
“You will not need to cook once you are married.” I roll my eyes, remembering his reasoning.
“You may take it here. My condolences.” She leaves the room, and I stand there in shock.
Condolences?
I lift the receiver and push the flashing button.
“Hello?” How anyone heard the whisper of sound that left my mouth, I don’t know.
“Gianna, it’s mother.” I nod like an idiot and then clear my throat.
“Is everything alright?” It’s barely dawn in Los Angeles.
“Your father is dead. Pack your bags and return home.” The phone slips from my hand, hitting the desk before tumbling to the floor.
“No.”
