Sweet as Pie

Copyright Copyright © 2023 Earl Gray Publishing LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at the address below.Earl Gray Publishing LLC www.bethbolden.com [email protected] Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental. Book Layout © 2023 Beth Bolden Book Cover © 2021 Morningstar Ashley Designs The people in the images are models and should not be connected to the characters in the book. Any resemblance is incidental. Ordering Information: Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact Beth Bolden at the address above. Sweet as Pie/ Beth Bolden. -- 1st ed. Chapter 1 C arlos was drunk. Luca stared in disbelief at the man who was the head chef at his family’s flagship restaurant, Nonna’s Fine Italian, as he upended a bottle of Marsala wine and let the remainder trickle down his throat. “What are you doing?” he demanded. Carlos, who’d worked for his family for nearly twenty years and was practically family, shrugged. “He and Lydia broke up,” Marcella, Luca’s younger sister, supplied. “He’s heartbroken.” “You mean he probably worked too hard and she got tired of waiting at home, alone,” Dario, Luca’s younger brother, muttered under his breath. Not helpful, but probably accurate. Carlos began singing Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” very loudly and very poorly, and Marcella shot Luca a look. “Do something,” she hissed. “I called you here so you would do something.” The problem with being the oldest of seven siblings and in charge of his family’s business was that any hiccup, any issue, any problem, automatically came to him. Were the others capable? Supposedly. But it wasn’t like Luca ever saw them handle anything on their own. He was always their first line of defense. And the second. And often the third. For better or for worse. Tonight, it was definitely for worse. “Get him out of here,” Luca said succinctly. “Where should I put him?” Marcella asked. She was smart. Capable. Raising two children while managing the front of their three sit-down restaurants with confidence and certainty. Yet when faced with the crisis of Carlos, drunk off his ass and unable to manage the kitchen for dinner service tonight, she looked lost. Helpless. You know why they’re helpless. You made them that way. He had. He hadn’t wanted to. Or intended to. But when he’d first taken over the family business—okay, for the last five years, after he’d officially been handed the reins to Nonna’s—he’d become a little bit of a control freak. Nonna had instilled in him not just the belief that the Moretti family always came first, but the absolute certainty he either knew or would figure out the right thing to do in every situation. Only in the last year, after the falling-out with his brother Gabriel, had Luca begun to question what he was doing to run the business—and how he was doing it. “I don’t know. Put him in an Uber and send him home,” Luca barked. “Marcella. Dario. Figure it out.” But Marcella, normally so fucking capable, still looked lost. Dario, one of the fundamental and key pieces of the Moretti business, didn’t move. “Marcella. Dario. Figure it out,” Luca snapped, barely hanging on to his temper. It took a level of patience he wasn’t quite sure he possessed. “Fine, fine, Dario, do something,” Marcella said, directing another look at their younger brother. Dario finally nodded. “I’ll take care of him,” he said. “But what about service? What will we do without Carlos?” “You need someone to run service tonight?” Luca questioned, and they both nodded. He’d known it from the moment he’d gotten her first text and also what he’d be doing about it, though deep down, he’d sort of hoped things might shake out differently. But that ship had sailed a long fucking time ago. “You know we do,” Dario said, looking frantic. He was not at his best behind the stove. The whole family knew it. His genius was in numbers. Put him in front of a computer with a budget and a spreadsheet, and he was in heaven, but he couldn’t sauté to save his life. Marcella was not much better. Plus, she usually did her rounds early, among the three restaurants, and then went home, to tuck her kids into bed. Luca already knew he’d be spending the evening tonight behind the swinging doors, not in front of them. So much for the date he hadn’t really wanted to go on. Maybe it was better this way. No maybes about it; it’s definitely better this way. “I’ll do it,” Luca said. He’d learned to cook from Nonna herself. She’d taken especial care with him, not only instilling in him the responsibility for the Moretti family, but making sure he knew the recipes, too. He could prepare all of them with his eyes closed. He set his phone down on the stainless steel counter that ran the length of the big kitchen, and with deliberate movements, shrugged off his suit jacket, carefully hung it up on a nearby hook so it wouldn’t wrinkle, then began to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves on the crisp white button-up he was wearing underneath. “Apron,” he demanded crisply, and Marcella handed him one. He tied it on and went to inspect the main kitchen. It was spotless—at least he could say that for Carlos. The staff was in