Chapter 7 - Ida’s Journal
The threat from Marco hung like low smoke over the kitchen, but Julian refused to hire security. Instead, he arrived earlier each morning and worked later each night, cleaning, prepping, and tasting.
One evening, after finishing a batch of handmade tortellini filled with braised greens and ricotta, Maya reached into her canvas knife bag and withdrew a small, cloth-bound notebook with water-damaged pages. The corners were frayed, and the spine had been repaired with black electrical tape.
"I didn't steal this," Maya said, placing it gently on the prep table between them. "She gave it to me the night before she was taken to the hospice."
Julian froze. His tattooed hands hesitated over the small book, as if touching it might cause it to combust into ash.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Open it," Maya said gently.
Julian opened the cover with trembling fingertips. On the first page, in faded blue ink, was a sketch: a crude drawing of a two-story stone house beneath two cypress trees, and below it, two handprints—one large, one tiny. Beneath the child’s handprint was written: Giuliano, 6 maggio 1982. Le sue mani sono calde come il pane. (Julian, May 6, 1982. His hands are as warm as bread.)
Julian’s breath shuddered. He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, his shoulders convulsing.
"She kept it under her mattress," Maya recounted quietly, leaning against the counter beside him. "Every night after the kitchen closed, she would write in it. Not recipes. Memories. What you laughed at when you were four. The day you scraped your knee climbing the fig tree. The day you brought home a stray hound and hid it in the wine cellar."
Julian turned the pages slowly. Droplets of water fell onto the aged parchment, blurring the ancient ink.
May you like
"She wrote on the last page," Maya added, "'Tell my son that the fire never took what was real. If he remembers how we broke bread, he will find his way back from the dark.'"
Julian wept silently, burying his face in his mother's weathered handwriting, letting decades of guarded rage, guilt, and grief wash out into the silence of the kitchen.
