Chapter Text
He blames Luca.
Luca is the sole cause why he’s whipping the shit out of this cream and the camera is placed at an angle which he knows is showing his arms flexing veins.
So much to erase suspicions.
So much to tell people that he is, in fact, not Fabio’s adopted son.
Not anything at all in the mafia clan.
He has not dealt with scum, at all.
He is nothing but Vincenzo–an acquaintance.
May your ass bleed, stronzo he muses as he’s dipping the lady fingers in marsala.
The best way to hide his identity and eliminate all the suspicions of Vincenzo is to,” he paused, looking at Vincenzo with something sinister and something he knows he is not going to like.
He clenches his jaw.
Fucker is going to take revenge for all the times he’s been more loyal to his girlfriends over the past years.
“Publicity,” Vincenzo closes his eyes, fiddles with the already loose tie, and thinks of various ways he can kill this man from a distance.
He sees the gun between him and his father.
Fabio gazes at him sternly, reading his mind and sips his wine.
Oh yes, he shall pour some pig blood on this fucking genius, standing so confidently as if he’s not ruining his life but giving a normal presentation proposing a grandeur solution, trying to impress his boss.
This was all Fabio needed to agree.
No more persuasion, no more explanation, nothing.
Niente.
And this is how he’s dipping ladyfingers, whipping creams, grilling fish, garnishing and decorating plates, competing with some Italians for the past 4 days.
On a fucking cooking competition being aired on the national television.
And there came the three chefs, to his station.
“Vincenzo!” the woman, in her 40s, too enthusiastic but too sharp with her taste and experience greets.
“Cuoca isabella,” he acknowledges, moving to the stove where he’s splashing butter on his tenderloin beef.
He hears an approved hum from Alessandro and the other Massimiliano, takes the spoon from his hands and inspects the beef.
“How many dishes have you made yet?”
“I am handling 3 right now, almost ready.”
“You are aware that only an hour is left, right?”
Alessandro speaks and Vincenzo glances at the clock, before nodding.
“What is for appetizer?”
“I wanted to keep it simple but rich, Bruschetta Al Pomodoro and Gochujang Shrimp Cocktail.”
“You’re doing great, Vincenzo, but you are out of time.”
It’s a five course meal, and he is out of time.
Merda.
"Vuoi usare il tuo vantaggio?" Massimiliano inquires.
A benefit, because he’s been acing this competition.
Bless Nonna and her recipes.
He’s mastered and set a standard for all the competitors.
Excelling the public stunt exceptionally.
And he’d been awarded an oblivious benefit for winning the pressure test yesterday.
He looks at the clock, is checking the cream and mascarpone and contemplates.
He knows he can do it in 1 hour.
He will make it.
But cooking cannot be hastily wrapped up.
It can turn to shit or be an award winning dish.
He nods again.
Isabella chuckles and claps and Alessandro takes out a black box.
He places his hands on the counter, staring at it.
The box is opened, the camera rising as the chef opens it.
And he looks at it dumbfoundedly.
A silver ring.
“Devi scegliere una moglie,”
He lets out a laugh and feels the other competitors pause for a minute.
Pick a wife.
He wants to hire the director to plan along with him some crafty deaths.
Wife.
“Wear the ring and choose a number,” Isabella tells him.
And he’s hard pressed to say he’s very much fine and he can do it.
But he has a standard to maintain.
He swiftly wears the ring on the lift, the cool metal band on his warm finger.
“ Numero Sette, ”
And then as soon as the words spill out of his mouth, the door opens, he doesn’t dare look forward but hears the sound of heels on the marble floor and resumes to stir the sauce for the steak.
Opens up the bottle of white wine and the chefs move away when he hears, “Why not try adding makgeolli?”
When he looks up, he sees a brunette, Korean, red lips and eyes which are disastrous.
The steak sears in the pan.
This is going to be a disaster.