Chapter 36
Emily's POV
I'd never seen him this upset. Marco's default state was jovial chaos—loud and gestural but fundamentally warm. This was different. This was personal offense that went bone-deep, the kind of anger that came from someone attacking not just your business but your integrity.
"They think I need tricks," he continued, his voice rising. "They think good cooking is trick, is conspiracy, is—" He unleashed a stream of Italian that I didn't understand but could parse as extremely unflattering.
Then, abruptly, he untied his apron and threw it on the counter. He grabbed a to-go container, scooped a generous portion of that day's special—linguine alle vongole—into it, snapped the lid shut, and headed for the door.
"Marco?" I called after him. "Where are you going?"
"I go to prove what any person with brain already knows—that is just cibo, just food, good food because I know how to cook!" He waved the container like a weapon. "I will shut the mouths of these idioti who have nothing better to do than make up stories!"
For a moment I thought he was heading out to confront someone physically—there was enough fury in his stride that I could picture him tracking down whoever had started the rumor and settling it the old-fashioned way.
"Marco, we have reservations starting in twenty minutes—"
"You take them!" he called back over his shoulder. "You and Olivia, you are smart girls, you can manage. I will be back when I have justice!"
And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him with enough force to rattle the framed photos of Italy on the wall.
I turned to Olivia. "Did that just happen?"
"Oh, it happened." She was already pulling out her phone, presumably to warn any other staff who might be coming in later. "He's been ranting about it since lunch service. Someone posted on the student forum that Luciano's food was 'suspiciously addictive' and made some joke about secret ingredients, and it snowballed from there."
"So we're running the front of house by ourselves tonight?"
"Apparently." She grabbed a rag and started wiping down tables with more force than necessary. "Hope you're ready for angry customers wondering where their food is."
She wasn't wrong.
The dinner rush hit right on schedule, and every other table wanted to know why their orders were taking longer than usual. I smiled through gritted teeth and explained that our chef had needed to step out for an important errand but would return shortly, and would they mind terribly waiting an extra fifteen minutes, and could I get them some complimentary bread in the meantime?
Olivia handled the actual cooking—she'd worked there long enough to manage the simpler dishes, though nothing as complex as Marco's specialties. We limped through service with a pared-down menu and a lot of apologetic smiles.
By seven-thirty I was running orders between tables so fast my feet had gone numb, and I'd stopped checking my phone to see if Marco had sent any updates.
He finally reappeared around eight-forty-five, striding through the door with the fierce satisfaction of a man who'd won a battle. No black eye, no split knuckles, no signs of physical confrontation. Just a manila folder clutched in one hand and an expression of vindicated righteousness.
"Ecco!" he announced to the half-full dining room, holding up the folder like a trophy. "Here is your proof! Here is your justice!"
He marched straight to the register and pulled out what looked like an official laboratory report, printed on letterhead with stamps and signatures covering the bottom. I caught a glimpse of technical language—chromatography results, chemical composition analysis, a long list of compounds tested for and found absent.
Marco grabbed the scotch tape from behind the counter and mounted the report directly next to the register, pressing it flat with both palms like he was making sure it would never come down.
"There," he said with fierce satisfaction. "Now everyone who comes in, they see. Independent laboratory, proper test, everything official. No drugs. No chemicals. No 'secret ingredients' except garlic and olio d'oliva and knowing how to cook like my nonna taught me."
He turned to face the customers, several of whom had stopped eating to watch the performance.
"You want to know why the food tastes good?" His voice carried across the dining room. "Because I use good ingredients. Because I do not cut corners. Because I cook with rispetto—with respect—for the food and for the people who eat it. That is the only secret. That is the only magic." He smacked the mounted report with the back of his hand. "And now I have paper from laboratory that says so. So next time someone wants to say I put drugs in carbonara, they can come read this first and then maybe keep their mouth shut."
A few customers actually applauded. One guy at table six raised his beer in salute. Olivia, emerging from the kitchen with two plates balanced on her arms, caught my eye and silently mouthed "oh my god."
Marco, his honor apparently restored, retied his apron and headed back to the kitchen like nothing unusual had happened, already calling out orders he'd missed during his absence.
I walked up to the register during a lull and studied the mounted report more closely. It was thorough, professionally formatted, and had probably cost him several hundred dollars. The conclusion was stated in dry, scientific language: No controlled substances, no non-food additives, and no compounds beyond standard culinary ingredients detected in submitted samples.
Beneath it, Marco had already taped a handwritten note on a piece of torn cardboard, his thick script barely contained within the margins: The secret ingredient is called COOKING. My grandmother taught me. You want addictive? Learn to make real food. —M. Luciano
I couldn't help it. I smiled.
That had been two months ago, and the framed report still hung by the register, slightly yellowed now from kitchen heat and grease but still perfectly legible.
Marco had been vindicated, the health inspection had found nothing remotely problematic, and business had actually picked up after the whole incident because apparently "the place some idiot thought was lacing pasta with drugs" became excellent word-of-mouth advertising among college students.