My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“It’s not that serious,” I correct. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

Esmar nods sagely and Gilberto slaps me on the back. “Get to know her well, Chef. Very, very well.”

The second batch of oil goes much better than the first, and when I turn off the heat, I know that the herb-infused oil will make a perfect salad dressing for the wedding reception. All of the flavor without the risk of getting a leaf stuck in your teeth or catching in the back of your throat.

As I check my to-do list, my phone rings in my pocket, a huge no-no on the line.

“Not it!” shouts out from all around the room in a symphony of voices.

“Cazzo! It’s on Do Not Disturb. Sorry!”

Esmar looks over from his station. “You will be. If someone is not dead or dying, there’s no excuse. You’ll have to do pans today.”

Ugh! I guess his kindness on the kitchen fire has been stretched to its maximum. Every chef has rules, along with consequences for breaking them, but no phones during service is pretty standard. As is dish duty for noncompliance.

“Yes, Chef,” I tell him apologetically, stepping off the line into a dry storage area to pull out my phone. When I see it’s an urgent call from Violet, my heart jumps into my throat.

I’ve been putting off her texts and calls since earlier this week, but if she’s breaking through my Do Not Disturb setting, perhaps something is truly wrong.

“Violet,” I growl as I answer the phone. “This had better be fucking important.”

“Oh, it definitely is, Lorenzo.” She drawls out my name in a way that says I’m in trouble. Ironically, in America, my first name becomes longer, each syllable drawn out. At home, in Positano, my family will add my middle names and last name and invoke Mary, Mother of Jesus, when I fuck up.

“Is Carly okay?” It’s my true first concern but also a way to edge around Violet’s violent tendencies when her feathers get ruffled. Hopefully, by doing a little invoking of my own of her sweet, adorable daughter, she’ll be reminded that murder is a bad idea that will have her seeing her daughter from behind a plexiglass window.

“Of course she is, and you damn well know it. This is about Abi!”

I wince at the hysterical note to Violet’s voice but continue poking and prodding as I usually do. She’s not thanking me in the slightest. She’s warning me, but casual and cool, I tell her, “No worries, cousin. I’m quite happy to help your friend out of her sticky situation.”

That warrants a full-blown, animalistic growl. I think motherhood suits Violet because she is quite the Mama Bear and has taken Abigail on as a cub that needs protecting as well. “You’d better not be giving her the wrong vibes if you don’t mean it. If you hurt her, don’t come back to the States. Because if you do, I will find you and I will destroy you until you beg for mercy, but there will be none for the likes of you! You manwhore, playboy, douchewaffle—”

“Whoa!” I exclaim. “First off, I don’t want to hurt her. Second, fuck . . . words hurt, Violet. And third, what I do is none of your business.”

“She is my sister-in-law as well as my best friend. It’s damn sure my business. And how about your mom’s? Or Aunt Sofia’s? Think they’d see your ‘honeymoon’ as none of their business?” she sing-songs, already knowing the answer to her question.

“You wouldn’t,” I challenge. God, I pray that I’m right. Violet is a reasonable woman. Surely, she wouldn’t throw me to the wolves of our family with this crazy story. Not after what her own story did to the family.

Although, with how well that turned out, maybe they wouldn’t be so harshly judgmental?

I consider that. But wait . . . if we go based on how Violet’s mess turned out, Mama and Aunt Sofia will have me and Abigail married off for real with demands for bambinos before the ink is dry on the marriage license. I’m not sure if that’s preferable or if a backlash of epic proportions is more desirable.

“I would,” she vows.

I’m beat and I know it. Violet has me by the short hairs. “No need to sic the family on me. I’m not going to hurt Abigail. I care for her.”

Violet snorts. “Of course you do. I might call you names, Lorenzo, but you’re not a bad guy.”

“Grazie,” I say solemnly.

“That doesn’t mean you’re a good guy, either,” she corrects before my head has a chance to swell. “You are romantic and sweet, and apparently, Abi thinks you’re sexy as sin, but you know as well as I do that you’re going to leave. It’s what you do. Abi knows it too, but I think she’s conveniently forgetting that.”