Chapter 3

"You're going to love my mom," Roman said as we pulled up to Castellano's Italian Kitchen. "She's been asking about you for weeks."

The restaurant looked exactly like what I'd imagined. Red brick facade, green awnings, the kind of place that had been feeding Austin families for decades. Through the windows, I could see diners twirling pasta and sharing bottles of wine.

"It's beautiful," I said, smoothing down my dress. I'd picked the most conservative thing I owned, hoping to make a good impression.

"Ready?" Roman squeezed my shoulder. "I can't wait for her to taste your cooking."

That should have been my first warning.

The kitchen was chaos in the best possible way. Three cooks moved like dancers, calling out orders in rapid-fire Italian-English. Steam rose from pasta pots. The smell of garlic and fresh herbs was overwhelming.

And standing in the center of it all was Bianca Castellano.

She was smaller than I'd expected but commanded the space like a general. Dark hair pulled back severely, sharp eyes that missed nothing. When she saw Roman, her whole face lit up.

"Mio figlio," she said, pulling him into a fierce hug.

"Ma, this is Sage," Roman said, his arm sliding around my waist. "My girlfriend."

Bianca's eyes fixed on me. I felt like I was being scanned, catalogued, judged all in the span of three seconds.

"Sage," she repeated, pronouncing it carefully. "Roman tells me you're a chef."

"I'm studying to be one," I corrected. "Still learning."

"Good. Then you won't mind a little test." She clapped her hands. "We make Sunday gravy together. You show me what Roman sees in you."

This wasn't a request.

The next hour was torture. Bianca set me up at a station with ingredients for traditional Bolognese. Ground beef, pork, veal. Pancetta that needed to be diced. Tomatoes to be crushed by hand.

I put on my gloves.

"What are those for?" Bianca asked immediately.

"I have sensitive skin," I lied. "Allergic to some ingredients."

Her expression said she didn't believe me, but she didn't push. Yet.

I managed the vegetables fine. Onions, carrots, celery - all things I could handle. But when it came time for the meat, I struggled. Couldn't feel the texture properly through the gloves. Couldn't tell when it was browned enough.

"No, no, no." Bianca swept over, stirring my pan with obvious irritation. "You must feel the meat. Know when it releases its juices."

"I can tell by the sound," I said weakly.

"Sound?" She looked at me like I'd spoken in tongues. "You cook with your hands, not your ears."

The other cooks were watching now. I could feel their stares burning into my back as I fumbled with ingredients that should have been second nature.

When it came time to check the sauce consistency, I knew I was done for. Bianca dipped her finger directly into the bubbling pot, tasted it, nodded approvingly.

"Your turn," she said.

I stared at the sauce. Thick, red, hot enough to burn. The smell of simmering tomatoes and meat that should have been appealing made my stomach turn.

"I... I can use a spoon."

"No spoon." Bianca's voice cut through the kitchen noise. "Real cooks taste with their hands. How else do you know the texture? The heat? The life of the sauce?"

Every eye in the kitchen was on me now. Roman appeared at my shoulder, tension radiating from him.

"Ma, maybe—"

"Your girlfriend wants to cook in our kitchen," Bianca interrupted. "She follows our rules."

I tried. Really tried. Got my finger halfway to the sauce before my body betrayed me. My hand started shaking. My breathing got shallow.

I couldn't do it.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I can't."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"She can't even taste the sauce," Bianca said, not bothering to lower her voice. "Look at this. No body, no depth. You cook with gloves like you're afraid of the food."

"I'm not afraid of the food," I managed, my voice shaking.

"No? Then what are you afraid of?"

Everything. I was afraid of everything.

The panic hit like a freight train. The walls felt like they were closing in. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but run.

I bolted from the kitchen, pushing through the back door into the alley behind the restaurant. Pressed my back against the brick wall and tried to remember how to breathe.

Roman found me there thirty seconds later.

"Sage, hey, look at me." His hands hovered near my face, not touching. "You're okay. You're safe."

"I can't do this," I sobbed. "I can't be what she wants me to be."

"You don't have to be anything other than yourself."

"She hates me."

"She doesn't understand you. There's a difference."

I wanted to believe him. But then the door opened and Bianca stepped into the alley, her face set in hard lines.

"Is this what you want?" she asked Roman, like I wasn't even there. "A girl who runs away when things get difficult?"

"Ma, please—"

"No." Bianca held up a hand. "This girl, she is sweet, yes? Pretty, yes? But she cannot cook in our restaurant. She cannot carry on our traditions."

"I don't need to carry on your traditions," I said, finding my voice. "I can make my own."

Bianca laughed, but there was no humor in it. "With gloves? Hiding from ingredients? This is not cooking, bambina. This is playing pretend."

The words hit like physical blows.

"That's enough," Roman said, his voice sharp.

"No, Roman. It's not enough. You think with your heart, not your head. This girl will hold you back. Make you weak."

"She makes me better."

"Better?" Bianca's voice rose. "Look at her! She can't even touch the food she claims to love. How will she run a kitchen? Teach your children? Be a proper wife?"

"I don't want a proper wife," Roman shot back. "I want her."

For a moment, hope flared in my chest. He was choosing me. Fighting for us.

But then Bianca played her final card.

"Choose," she said simply. "Your family. Your heritage. Your future. Or this girl who will never fit into our world."

Roman went very still.

The silence stretched between us like a chasm. I watched his face, saw the war happening behind his eyes. Family duty versus love. Tradition versus change.

Five seconds. That's all it took for my world to crumble.

Five seconds of silence that told me everything I needed to know.

"You've already chosen," I said quietly.

"Sage, no. That's not—"

But I was already walking away. Past Bianca, who looked smugly satisfied. Past the kitchen full of cooks who'd witnessed my humiliation. Into the parking lot where my beat-up Honda waited.

"Sage, wait!" Roman called behind me. "We can figure this out!"

I turned back one last time. He was standing in the yellow pool of the security light, looking torn apart. Like he wanted to run after me but couldn't make his feet move.

"No," I said, loud enough for him to hear. "We can't."