Chapter 141: Alla famiglia

The restaurant Bellini recommended wasn’t particularly large or elaborate.

That, apparently, was part of its appeal.

They were given a table near an open window, far enough from the other diners to have plenty of elbow room without feeling isolated. A gentle breeze drifted through the window every so often, carrying cooler evening air and the faint sounds of conversation from outside.

Giovanni liked it immediately.

Bellini picked up the menu but barely looked at it.

"Would you like us to order the house specialties, or would you prefer to choose for yourself?"

Giovanni glanced between him and Moretti.

He owned two restaurants. Under normal circumstances, that alone would’ve been enough reason for him to study the menu from beginning to end, inspect the wine list, and develop several opinions nobody had asked for.

But these two had been coming here much longer than he had.

"You brought me here because you think the food is good."

"Very good," Moretti assured him.

"Then you order."

Bellini looked pleased by the decision.

"If I regret it, I’m blaming both of you."

Moretti laughed. "Then we should order carefully."

They did.

A bottle of local Chianti arrived first, followed by thick slices of toasted bread rubbed with garlic and drizzled generously with olive oil. They also brought a platter of cured meats, pecorino, and marinated vegetables for them to share while they waited for the main dishes.

Giovanni took a bite of the bread.

Simple.

Very simple, actually.

But the outside had been toasted until crisp while the center remained pleasantly chewy, and the olive oil had a fresh, slightly peppery finish that lingered after the garlic.

He took another bite.

Bellini noticed.

"I told you."

"I haven’t said anything."

"You took another piece."

Apparently, that was enough.

Giovanni reached for the wine instead.

The Chianti was dry and balanced, with enough acidity to cut through the richness of the cheese and cured meat without overwhelming the food.

Then the pasta arrived.

Wide ribbons of fresh pappardelle had been coated in a slow-cooked wild boar ragù. The sauce was rich without being excessively heavy, with tomato, herbs, and red wine blending into the meat after what Giovanni suspected had been several hours of cooking.

He took his first bite and stopped chewing for a moment.

Moretti watched him expectantly.

Giovanni swallowed.

"This is good."

Bellini leaned back with the satisfaction of a man whose personal reputation had apparently depended on the outcome.

"I also told you that."

Giovanni ignored him and took another bite.

Actually, this was very good.

He was already wondering whether something similar would work at Matteo’s.

Not an exact copy. Giovanni respected another restaurant too much to steal someone’s dish outright. Still, the rustic preparation would fit well with the kind of Italian food he wanted Matteo’s to represent.

He’d have to talk to the chef when he returned home.

Moretti caught him studying the plate.

"You are working."

Giovanni looked up. "I’m eating."

"You have the face."

"What face?"

"The one Alessandro used to make."

That got his attention.

"Alessandro?"

Moretti smiled.

"Your grandfather."

Giovanni set down his fork.

He remembered his grandfather, of course, although much of what he remembered came from childhood visits, old photographs, and the stories Matteo used to tell. Hearing the name spoken so casually by someone else felt different.

"You knew him well?"

Moretti and Bellini exchanged a look.

"Well enough," Bellini said.

Moretti was already smiling. "He made the same face whenever he ate something he liked. He would become very quiet."

"I wasn’t quiet."

"You stopped talking."

"For perhaps ten seconds."

"Exactly."

Giovanni couldn’t argue with that without proving the point.

Bellini took a sip of wine.

"Alessandro loved food. He loved wine more, but we should probably say food first."

Moretti laughed.

Giovanni found himself smiling too.

"How did you know him?"

Moretti rested his forearms against the table.

"My father worked at the vineyard. I started helping during harvest when I was young. Nothing important at first. Whatever work they were willing to give me."

"You grew up there?"

"Close enough. My family lived nearby."

Moretti had learned the vineyard from the ground up. He’d worked harvests, helped maintain the vines, learned the production side of the business, and gradually taken on greater responsibilities as the older workers retired.

Alessandro had noticed.

"He asked me what I wanted to do with my life," Moretti continued. "I told him I wanted his job."

Giovanni raised an eyebrow.

Bellini started laughing before Moretti even finished.

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-two."

"You told the owner of the vineyard you wanted his job?"

"I was ambitious."

"Eri un idiota," Bellini corrected.

"You were an idiot."

"That too."

Giovanni laughed.

Moretti didn’t become the owner, obviously, but Alessandro had apparently appreciated the answer enough to start giving him more responsibility. Over the years, Moretti learned the business side of the vineyard along with the agricultural work he’d already grown up around.

By the time Alessandro died, Moretti was experienced enough to stay on the management team. Eventually, he became the man responsible for overseeing the vineyard’s daily operations.

Giovanni turned to Bellini.

"And you?"

"My history is less impressive."

"I doubt that."

Bellini smiled. "I worked in hospitality. Your grandfather needed someone to look after the villa whenever the family wasn’t staying there. At first, I only helped arrange maintenance and prepare the property before visits."

"Then he discovered Lorenzo likes telling people what to do," Moretti added.

"Someone had to tell you."

Their bickering was comfortable enough that Giovanni suspected he’d heard only a fraction of it over the past week.

Bellini had eventually taken over more of the villa’s operations. When the family used the property less often, he helped turn it into something that could generate income instead of sitting empty most of the year.

"Your grandfather didn’t like waste," Bellini explained. "An empty house still costs money. Maintenance, taxes, repairs. He said if the villa was going to demand money from him, it could learn to earn some of its own."

That sounded practical enough to be familiar.

"My father would’ve agreed with him."

"Matteo did."

Giovanni looked up.

Bellini’s expression softened.

"Your father visited when he could. Not as often as Alessandro would’ve liked, but he came."

Moretti nodded. "Matteo was always asking questions about the vineyard."

That didn’t surprise Giovanni either.

Apparently, asking questions while quietly assessing everything in front of him was a Mercer family habit.

The next course arrived before the conversation could become too heavy.

They served slices of grilled beef simply, seasoned with salt, pepper, herbs, and olive oil. Roasted potatoes and vegetables accompanied the meat, their edges browned while the centers remained soft.

Nothing about it was particularly elaborate.

That was precisely why it worked.

Good ingredients hadn’t been buried beneath unnecessary sauces or decoration. The beef was tender, the potatoes crisp where they needed to be, and everything tasted like someone in the kitchen understood when to stop interfering with the food.

Giovanni took another sip of wine.

Matteo’s could definitely learn something from this place.

Bellini caught him studying his plate again.

"There. Alessandro’s face."

Giovanni sighed.

Moretti laughed into his wine.

For the rest of dinner, Giovanni asked about the vineyard, the villa, and his grandfather.

The answers he received weren’t the kind that appeared in financial reports or legal documents.

Alessandro had apparently been stubborn about harvest schedules, particular about his wine, and terrible at pretending not to notice when workers took home extra grapes for their families. He’d argued with Bellini over renovations to the villa and once spent nearly an entire afternoon following Moretti through the vineyard because he was convinced the younger man had pruned a section incorrectly.

Moretti had been right.

Alessandro had refused to admit it.

"Never?" Giovanni asked.

"Never."

"Not even later?"

"He told me the vines had recovered despite my interference."

Giovanni laughed hard enough that he had to put down his glass.

That sounded less like learning about a dead relative and more like being introduced to someone he’d somehow missed knowing properly.

By the time dessert arrived, the three of them had abandoned business almost entirely.

Giovanni’s Italian slipped in and out of the conversation whenever he could. Moretti and Bellini occasionally corrected a word or supplied one when he got stuck, but neither made him feel ridiculous for trying.

Eventually, Bellini raised his glass.

"A suo nonno, Alessandro."

To your grandfather, Alessandro.

Moretti lifted his own.

"E alla famiglia che ritorna."

And to the family returning.

Giovanni looked at them for a moment before raising his glass.

He understood that without needing anyone to translate it.

"Alla famiglia."

To family.

Their glasses touched gently.

Giovanni had come to Italy expecting paperwork, property inspections, and a month away from everything waiting for him back home.

Instead, somewhere between a vineyard, an old villa, his father’s language, and dinner with two men who remembered his grandfather as more than a name on an inheritance document, he’d found another piece of where his family had come from.

For once, he was glad he’d stayed long enough to find it.