“It’s okay,” she said, not taking it from him. “Fish it out with the bigger piece. Like this.”
She showed him, her hand hovering over his but not covering it.
He fished, his tongue poking out in concentration.
Nico and Marco were mopping now, bumping shoulders.
Matteo was still scrubbing, but slower.
Vittorio finally set his glass down with deliberate care and reached for a kitchen towel to wipe his hand.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said to Serena, his voice lower now, meant only for her. “You don’t understand what you’re—”
“I understand I’m making dinner before eight,” she interrupted, not unkindly. “And that you haven’t eaten either.”
He stared at her, startled that she had noticed the untouched plate by the sink, the way his suit jacket hung a little looser than it should.
Elio cracked the second egg cleanly.
A small, surprised smile broke across his face and he looked up at Serena for confirmation.
She smiled back.
“Perfect.”
The water came to a boil.
Serena salted it heavily and dropped the rigatoni. The steam fogged the windows.
She diced the pancetta while Elio whisked eggs and cheese with a fork, his whole arm moving.
“Slower,” she murmured. “You want it creamy, not frothy.”
Nico crept closer to watch.
“Why no cream?” he asked.
“Because your mama was right,” Serena said. “Cream hides the taste.”
At the word mama, Matteo flinched.
Serena lifted the pancetta pan and let the fat render, the sizzle filling the kitchen with a smell that had been absent for almost a year.
Vittorio turned away abruptly and braced both hands on the counter, his head bowed.
His shoulders rose once, sharply, as if he had taken a punch.
Mrs. Chen moved to him instinctively, then stopped herself.
Serena drained the pasta, reserving a ladle of starchy water the way her nonna had taught her with a chipped cup.
She pulled the pan off the heat.
“Elio, pour,” she whispered.
He poured the egg mixture in while she tossed, the heat of the pasta turning it into silk, the pancetta crackling through it.
No one spoke.
