Chapter 2 - THE REASON HE WAS FEARED
“Get that disgusting old book off my table.”
Serena Whitmore stood beneath the dining-room chandelier, staring at the red recipe book in Maria DeLuca’s hands.
The book was faded.
Its cover was stained with tomato sauce and olive oil.
Several pages were held together with yellowed tape.
But seventy-seven-year-old Maria held it as carefully as though it were made of gold.
“I brought my husband’s Sunday sauce recipe,” she said. “Marco loved it when he was a boy.”
Serena glanced at the wedding planner and laughed.
“We’re serving truffle risotto and filet mignon. Not peasant food from some neighborhood basement.”
Twenty-four family members and wedding guests sat around the table.
Nobody spoke.
Maria lowered her eyes.
“It was only a suggestion.”
“This is our wedding, Maria. Not another one of your Sunday dinners.”
The old woman slowly closed the book.
“I understand.”
Those two words hurt more than Serena’s insult.
My name is Lily Carter. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve worked in the DeLuca kitchens for fourteen months.
I knew what that book meant.
Maria had written the first recipe inside it when she was nineteen.
She and her husband, Antonio, opened their first restaurant in Brooklyn with four tables, one stove, and forty-two dollars in the cash register.
Maria cooked.
Antonio served customers.
When they couldn’t afford a babysitter, baby Marco slept in a laundry basket beneath the counter.
Forty-six years later, DeLuca Family Restaurants had eighteen locations across three states.
Every plate of sauce began in that red book.
Serena reached across the table and pulled it from Maria’s hands.
“We don’t need this anymore.”
She tossed it toward the trash cart beside me.
I caught it before it landed.
Serena stared at me.
“Did I ask you to save it?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then put it in the trash.”
Maria looked at me.
Her eyes were wet.
“Please, Lily.”
I held the book against my apron.
“I can’t.”
Serena’s face hardened.
“You can’t?”
“These are Mrs. DeLuca’s original recipes.”
“They belong to the company.”
“No,” Maria whispered. “They belong to me.”
Serena turned toward her.
“You haven’t worked in a professional kitchen in years.”
“I worked in one last month.”
“You wandered into one and confused the staff.”
Maria’s cheeks turned red.
“I founded that restaurant.”
“And now you’re frightening employees.”
I couldn’t stay silent.
“She didn’t frighten anyone.”
Serena stepped closer.
“What did you say?”
“Mrs. DeLuca came to teach us the Christmas Eve menu.”
“She was not authorized to be there.”
“It’s her menu.”
Serena pointed toward the kitchen door.
“Put down the book and leave.”
My stomach tightened.
I needed this job.
My father’s rent at his assisted-living apartment was due in six days.
Serena knew that.
She had reminded me twice that my employee benefits could disappear if I became “too loyal” to Maria.
Then Maria reached for my hand.
“Do what she says, sweetheart. Don’t lose your job because of me.”
Something inside me broke.
I tightened my grip on the recipe book.
“No.”
A fork touched the china at the head of the table.
Marco DeLuca had stopped eating.
Forty-three years old.
Black suit.
Dark, watchful eyes.
He did not raise his voice.
But the room immediately became silent.
“Why is Lily losing her job?”
Serena turned toward him.
“Darling, your mother interrupted the tasting with that filthy book, and Lily is being insubordinate.”
Marco looked at Maria.
“Mom?”
She forced a smile.
“I wanted them to taste your father’s sauce.”
Marco glanced at the untouched bowl beside her.
“Why didn’t they?”
“Serena said it wasn’t appropriate for the wedding.”
He picked up a spoon and tasted it.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then his expression softened.
“This tastes exactly like Sunday.”
Maria’s eyes filled.
“Your father wrote the final measurements himself.”
Marco looked at the book in my arms.
“I haven’t seen that in years.”
“Because Serena took it,” Maria said.
Serena laughed.
“I borrowed it so the corporate chefs could preserve the recipes.”
I finally understood what Maria wanted me to reveal.
“She made me copy every page.”
Marco looked at me.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Serena’s voice sharpened.
“Lily.”
“She told me to type every recipe into a company file and remove all the handwritten notes.”
Marco frowned.
“Why remove them?”
I opened the book.
Beside each recipe, Maria had written the date it was created and the family member who inspired it.
Marco’s tenth-birthday lasagna.
Antonio’s anniversary braciole.
Little Sofia’s lemon cake.
Forty-six years of family history.
“Serena said customers didn’t need to know the recipes came from your mother.”
Maria’s hand began trembling.
Marco noticed.
“Mom, what else happened?”
She looked toward Serena.
Then she whispered, “I’m not allowed inside the restaurants anymore.”
Marco became very still.
“What?”
“Security stopped me at the Fifth Avenue location.”
“When?”
“Last Tuesday.”
“Who gave that order?”
Serena folded her arms.
“Your mother was entering kitchens without notice. It created an insurance problem.”
Marco looked at her.
“You banned the founder of my company from her own restaurants?”
“It was temporary.”
Maria shook her head.
“She fired me.”
Serena sighed.
“You cannot fire someone who no longer works there.”
Maria stared at her.
“I never retired.”
Marco turned toward his mother.
“What do you mean?”
“I still own my shares.”
Serena’s face changed.
Maria continued.
“Your father left me fifty-one percent.”
“That isn’t possible,” Marco said. “Dominic told me the shares transferred to the family trust.”
“Your brother lied.”
Nobody moved.
Marco’s younger brother Dominic had managed the restaurants’ finances for six years.
He was also Serena’s closest adviser on the wedding.
Marco looked at me.
“Is that why Serena wanted the recipes copied?”
I reached beneath my apron and removed a folded document.
“I found this beside the office printer.”
Serena stepped toward me.
“That is confidential company property.”
Marco took it from my hand.
It was a contract to sell all eighteen DeLuca restaurants.
The buyer was Whitmore Hospitality Group.
Serena’s family company.
The sale price was less than one-third of the restaurants’ estimated value.
At the bottom was Maria’s signature.
Marco looked at his mother.
“Did you sign this?”
“No.”
Serena spoke quickly.
“She signed it during a meeting with Dominic.”
Maria shook her head.
“I have never seen that paper.”
“You forget things.”
“I did not forget giving away the business I built with my husband.”
Marco studied the signature.
Then he looked at me.
“Lily, have you seen my mother sign her name?”
“Every week, sir.”
“Is this her signature?”
“No.”
Serena’s voice rose.
“She washes dishes. She isn’t a handwriting expert.”
“I’m a kitchen assistant,” I said. “And Mrs. DeLuca signs every handwritten menu with a capital M that leans to the left.”
I pointed to the contract.
“This one leans right.”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“Where is Dominic?”
Serena looked away.
“He had a meeting.”
Maria suddenly reached for the recipe book.
“There’s something inside the back cover.”
I handed it to her.
She carefully peeled away the loose red lining.
Hidden beneath it was an old partnership agreement.
Antonio DeLuca’s original signature appeared at the bottom.
So did Maria’s.
Marco read the first page.
Then the second.
His expression changed.
“This says the recipes, restaurant name, and controlling shares belong to you for the rest of your life.”
Maria nodded.
“Your father insisted.”
“Why hide it in a cookbook?”
“Because your father said greedy men search safes.”
She touched the stained cover.
“But they never look inside the things a woman uses to feed her family.”
Serena began backing toward the door.
Marco noticed.
“Where are you going?”
“I need some air.”
“You’re staying.”
At that moment, the dining-room doors opened.
Dominic entered with two attorneys and a silver-haired man in an expensive gray suit.
Serena’s face went pale.
Marco held up the sale contract.
“Perfect timing.”
Dominic stopped.
“Marco, let me explain.”
“Did you forge our mother’s signature?”
“It was necessary to protect the company.”
“From whom?”
“From her.”
Maria recoiled.
Dominic pointed toward the old recipe book.
“She is emotionally attached to a dying brand. Serena has a plan to modernize everything.”
Marco looked at the silver-haired man.
“And who are you?”
The stranger extended his hand.
“Richard Hale. Whitmore Hospitality’s legal representative.”
Serena whispered, “Richard, you shouldn’t be here.”
The man looked at her.
“You stopped answering my calls.”
Marco glanced between them.
“You know each other?”
Richard’s expression hardened.
“Of course I know her.”
Serena shook her head.
“Don’t.”
But Richard reached into his coat and placed another document on the table.
It was a marriage certificate.
Marco read Serena’s full name.
Then Richard’s.
The date was six years earlier.
His voice became dangerously quiet.
“You told me you had never been married.”
Serena began crying.
“We’ve been separated for years.”
Richard laughed bitterly.
“We had breakfast together yesterday.”
Nobody moved.
Marco looked at the sale contract again.
Whitmore Hospitality did not belong to Serena’s father.
It belonged to Richard Hale.
Her husband.
Marco turned toward Dominic.
“You tried to sell our mother’s restaurants to my fiancée’s secret husband?”
Dominic said nothing.
Maria clutched the recipe book against her chest.
“That isn’t why they needed my recipes.”
Marco looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
Tears rolled down Maria’s face.
“They weren’t planning to operate the restaurants.”
Serena closed her eyes.
Marco’s voice dropped.
“Then what were they planning to do?”
Maria opened the book to the final handwritten page.
It contained the address of the original Brooklyn restaurant.
Beside it, Antonio had written one sentence:
THE LAND BENEATH THIS BUILDING MUST NEVER BE SOLD.
Marco frowned.
“Why?”
Maria looked at Dominic.
Then at Serena’s husband.
“Because the restaurants aren’t what they’re really buying.”
The entire room fell silent.
Marco stepped toward his brother.
“What is buried beneath our first restaurant?”
Dominic’s face lost all color.
Maria tightened her arms around the book.
May you like
Then she whispered the words her husband had made her promise never to say:
“The reason your father became the most feared man in Brooklyn.”
