Before long Tuccia’s favorite person in the whole world would be offering her sanctuary. Her life would continue to depend on Bertina’s help, or all was lost.
The next day, Milan, Italy
Dinner had concluded in the private dining room of the legendary fourteenth-century castello, the home of the former first Duc di Lombardi in Milan, Italy.
Vincenzo Gagliardi, the present-day duc, lifted his goblet with the insignia of the Gagliardi coat of arms. “Buona fortuna this trip, Cesare. Our business is depending on you. May you return with my wife’s replacement soon. The baby will be here in two months. I want Gemma off her feet ASAP.”
“Amen,” Takis declared, raising his glass. “You’re going to have to be quick, amico.” He touched his goblet to Cesare’s, and they sipped the local vintage Lombardia that Vincenzo had produced from the vast wine cellar for his send-off.
Cesare Donati eyed his two best friends with a smile. They’d been like brothers to him for more than a decade. Together they’d turned the former fortress palace of Vincenzo’s family into the five-star Castello Supremo Hotel and Ristorante di Lombardi, Europe’s most sought-after resort.
“I have a surprise for you. I’ll be back in two days with our new pastry chef. I told Gemma as much this morning.”
“That soon?” they said in unison.
“It’s been arranged for a while, so have no concerns.”
His friends smiled in relief. For Cesare’s contribution to their successful enterprise, he’d already found the perfect person to replace Gemma as the castello’s new executive pastry chef.
But he’d been keeping the identity of his choice a secret until he could present Ciro Fragala in person with one of his many specialties for their delectation.
Vincenzo’s wife had learned to make Florentine pastry from her mother who’d cooked for the last duc. Though her cooking was perfection and drew the elite clientele that came to the castello, in Cesare’s opinion the best cook in the world was his own Sicilian mother.
She’d learned from the nuns who made divine pastries and ran the orphanage where she’d been raised until she turned eighteen. On her say-so—and she would know better than anyone else—Cesare had done the necessary research on Signor Fragala, the pastry cook she’d declared to be the finest in all Sicily. After a visit to the Palermo restaurant with his mother two months ago, he’d agreed totally with her assessment.
Hiring Ciro meant sensational new desserts for their business enterprise in Milan. The two of them had met with the fifty-five-year-old widower several times in the last few weeks. The chef had said he would leap at the chance to work at the famous castello restaurant.
Since he didn’t have children, it wouldn’t be a problem to move. He’d given his notice and Cesare planned to fly him to Milan. The new chef would work well with their executive French chef at the castello. Most of all, the guys would be pleased by the man’s amiable personality.
“We’ll drive you to the airport,” Vincenzo stated.
Cesare shook his head. “Thanks, but you’ve done enough by surprising me with this dinner. You’ve both got pregnant wives who’ve been generous enough to let us have this meal together. By now they’ll be wondering where you are. The limo is waiting as we speak.”
“Then we’ll walk you out,” Vincenzo murmured.
“Grazie.”
He drained the rest of his wine and got to his feet. Reaching for the suitcase he’d left by the double doors, he moved ahead of them to the portrait-lined corridor of the former ducs with their legendary silvery eyes.
“Stay safe,” Takis said as Cesare climbed in the rear of the limo.
“Always.”
Vincenzo smiled. “We can’t wait to meet this mystery paragon of pastry chefs.” He patted Cesare’s shoulder and shut the door before it drove away from the castello.
Two hours later, the Lombardi ducal jet arrived at Palermo International Airport, where another limousine waited for him on the tarmac. Cesare told the driver to take him to the posh Mondello borough. It was there he’d bought a villa in the famed art nouveau style for his mother and sister who was now married and lived in the city with her husband and their toddler.
He’d wanted nothing but the best for his wonderful mamma, Lina Donati.
She would never leave Palermo. After being raised by the nuns and learning how to cook from them, she’d started out working in a local restaurant after leaving the orphanage.
Her subsequent marriage was short-lived. Abandoned by her husband, she’d cooked her way through life to support their little family and had made a name for herself. Cesare believed she made the best food on earth. In her honor he’d had a state-of-the-art kitchen installed because he couldn’t do enough for her.
Thanks to a bad back from being on her feet all the time, she now cooked exclusively for Bertina Spadaro, who wasn’t a demanding employer. Cesare had begged her to retire. He would take care of her forever. But his mother said she couldn’t imagine not having work to do and she loved Bertina. The aristocratic older sister of the Marchesa di Leonardi di Trabia had become her friend.
The Leonardi family descended from the royal Sicilian family of the commune of Trabia, thirty miles from Palermo, and could trace their roots back to the 1400s, when the land and castle were granted them by Frederick III. The present marchese and marchesa had established their own palazzo in the heart of Palermo.
Bertina and Lina had become fast friends over the years and were in each other’s confidence. The rest of the time his mother spent with Cesare’s family, or tended her spectacular herb garden.
The elite area of Mondello had everything: exclusive yachting clubs dotting its sandy beach, restaurants, shops and a marina with numerous yachts, including the marchese’s gleaming white royal yacht that stood out from the others.
Before buying the villa for her, Cesare, too, had been captivated as he’d walked through the sand of its private beach front, inhaling the air filled with the heady scent of orange blossoms and jasmine. Whenever he flew to Palermo, Cesare was reminded that with all its rich history, there was nowhere else in the world he found more fascinating.
But tonight as they drove into the ancient, colorful city, he was met with the strong smells of fish and spices that always brought back memories of his youth. There was a hint of the old Arab souks, taking him back to his childhood. As a boy, these streets with their subtle niches and labyrinths had been his backyard.
His father had been in the merchant marines, but ran off before Cesare was a year old, leaving his mother to work in a trattoria and support him and his older sister Isabella. They’d lived in the apartment above it in a rougher neighborhood of Palermo. Cesare’s world had been filled with lots of purse snatchers, few showers that usually didn’t work, grueling heat. Everything had been run-down and chaotic.
Since he’d been too young to remember his father, he didn’t miss him, only the idea of him. Cesare had envied his friends who had fathers and taught them things. Early in life he’d felt embarrassed at times that he was the only one who went to mass unaccompanied while the other boys walked in the church with their own fathers.
As he grew up, the embarrassment went away, but he lacked the confidence he saw in his friends whose sense of belonging seemed to give them an extra layer of it.
Cesare couldn’t comprehend a man abandoning his wife and children, never caring about them again. Sometimes in his teens he’d dreamed about meeting his father, but those dreams were unsatisfactory because his father always turned away from him. The dreams