Chapter 13 - Restoring the Family Name
By Saturday afternoon, the great kitchen of the Romano mansion was alive with sounds, smells, and laughter.
For decades, the estate’s kitchen had been a place of quiet, rigid professionalism under Celeste’s cold supervision.
Now, it was filled with warmth, music, and the irresistible aroma of simmering garlic, slow-cooked beef ragù, and fresh basil.
Ada stood at the center island, wearing a floral apron over her dress, rolling out fresh pasta dough with a wooden rolling pin.
Vincent, wearing a simple white linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, was standing by the stove, carefully stirring a giant stainless steel pot of rich red tomato sauce.
“More oregano, Vincent,” Ada commanded playfully, waving her flour-covered wooden spoon at him. “Your father always made the same mistake! You men think you can rush the sauce!”
Vincent laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Yes, boss. Right away.”
He reached for the spice jar and carefully sprinkled the herbs into the pot, leaning down so Ada could inspect his work.
She took a small wooden spoon, dipped it into the sauce, and blew gently before tasting it.
She nodded with profound satisfaction.
“Now that... is a Romano sauce.”
I was standing beside Ada, layering freshly grated mozzarella, creamy ricotta, and seasoned ground meat into deep porcelain baking dishes.
There were eight giant trays of lasagna ready to go into the ovens.
Outside in the courtyard, long wooden tables had been set up under the shade of ancient oak trees.
White linen tablecloths fluttered in the gentle breeze, decorated with bowls of fresh lemons, grapes, and rustic candles.
Marco and the estate security team were busy setting out fifty chairs.
At five o'clock, the first guests began to arrive.
Old Carlo arrived wearing his best Sunday suit, holding the hand of his seven-year-old granddaughter.
Maria Bianchi arrived carrying a basket of warm, freshly baked cannoli.
Pietro, the retired gardener, brought a crate of heritage tomatoes from his personal garden in Queens.
Dozens of retired staff members, drivers, mechanics, and neighborhood friends walked through the open iron gates with wide smiles and heads held high.
There were no security checks.
No cover charges.
No velvet ropes.
Vincent walked out into the courtyard, greeting every single guest with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
“Welcome home, Carlo,” Vincent said, hugging the old driver.
May you like
“Don Vincent,” Carlo smiled with tears in his eyes. “It feels like thirty years ago. Your father is smiling down on us today.”
“He is sitting right here with us, Carlo,” Vincent replied warmly. “Now sit down, drink some wine, and get ready to eat.”
