Page 6 of The Holiday Hate-Off
It was my idea to petition for the first day of the Adventcalendar unveiling to be held at Hidden Italy. Someone had to. Nonna would never have appealed to the mayor for a favor, no matter how badly the family business might need it. The woman can hold grudges for decades, and she’d held one against Mayor Locke for ages, having famously declared the man was dead to her after he said Nico had made him a dry sandwich.
Itwasdry. Nico had been nursing the hangover from hell, and he’d forgotten to use the oil and vinegar. Nonna knows this. But never let the truth get in the way of making a point when a Cafiero is involved.
I was not about to let Nonna’s pettiness get in the way of fixing things. So I took the mayor out for lunch at Hideaway Café well over a month ago, back when I still had my own life in New York City, and insisted that he wouldn’t regret it if he advocated for scheduling Hidden Italy for the advent calendar’s first day this year.
“But you never decorate for the holiday,” he objected. There was mayo streaked across his face, but I wasn’t about to tell him and risk the possibility of inflaming old grudges about condiments.
“We will this year,” I promised. “And my best friend is willing to be the guest of honor. You saw Will’s book hit the bestseller list, right?”
I was stretching, and I knew it. Sure, my high school buddy Will was a bestselling author now, but he’d written a book about finance that was so boring I’d only managed to skim it. He probably wouldn’t appreciate me offering his services, but desperate times…
“No. No need for Will to make the trip on a weekday. I want your grandmother to be the one who unveils the number,” Mayor Locke insisted stubbornly, pushing his plate away. And I knew this was his revenge for the dry sandwich.
He wanted to be the man who made Francesca Cafieroswallow her pride and act grateful to the man who’d dared question her family.
I made him that impossible promise, because I was supposed to be the man who made miracles happen. The man who’d taken a company that had been in the red and given them their best year ever.
If I could do it for a huge, multinational corporation, I could surely do it for an old mom-and-pop shop like Hidden Italy. Even if I privately thought we’d be better off if we just gave it up.
But that was probably the one thing that would put Nonna in her grave, and no one wanted to be the Cafiero responsible for that.
“Of course you don’t want to be there, dipshit,” Aria says with her usual grace. “But you just lost your job, and the family needs help, so you got to swoop in like Superman.”
“I didn’t lose it,” I say, scowling at my reflection. “I decided to step away. It was getting stale.”
“And there’s definitely nothing else to that story,” she says wryly. “But you’d obviously like to change the subject, so I’ll play along. Nico showed me the decorations at the shop. They’re classy. You do it yourself?”
“What do you take me for?”
“A person capable of stringing lights?”
I laugh, rearranging my collar so it’s perfectly centered. “I paid a couple of high school kids. Look at me supporting the locals. But I did get Nico to make panettone.”
Everyone in the family knows panettone is Nico’s nemesis. It all tastes the same to me, which is why I was never the chef in the family, but he’s never happy with his efforts.
“Already making waves. Enzo to the rescue.”
“Giovanni’s into it too. He made us all wear suits.”
“You sure it was Giovanni and not you?”
“I know, I’m proud of him too. We look like Frankie Valliand the Four Seasons. We’re going to sing a Christmas carol while Nonna tears off the number.”
She snorts. “Does Nico have a suit?”
“He does now,” I say, smiling at the memory of suit shopping with my brother, who only owned a single button-up shirt.
“I wish I were there to see that,” she says with a sigh. “What else are you guys planning?”
“Samples from the deli and the good stuff we import.” I roll my eyes at my reflection. “Lots of samples of that damn Italian sub, because Nonna’s determined to prove, once and for all, that it’s not dry.”
“She does enjoy making a point,” my sister muses. “But she’s not wrong to want to prove we can make a good Italian sub. What kind of Italian deli can’t make an Italian sub? It’s a bad look. How about entertainment?”
“Didn’t I say we’d be singing?”
“Yeah, but you know how it goes. Everyone likes to pull out all the stops for these things.”
“We make and sell food,” I point out. “Tonight we’re giving it away. I offered to have Will come up, but the mayor didn’t seem interested. Though I have to be honest: when Will starts talking about finance law, my eyes cross, and Ilikefinance law.”
