Page 2 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"Yeah, yeah. Just let me..." I grab my last photo—me and my sisters at our parents' fortieth anniversary party last month. Mama had threatened to disown me if I missed it for a work emergency. "Family first," she always says. "Work is work, but family is forever."

I should have listened more.

My phone buzzes again. My sister Lucia:"NONNA SAW THE NEWS. GET TO THE RESTAURANT NOW. She's now cooking enough pasta to feed all of Seattle."

At least I know where I'm having birthday dinner.

I straighten my shoulders and head for the elevator, security flanking me like I'm being marched to corporate execution. Which, technically, I guess I am.

The doors open on the lobby, and because timing is everything in comedy and tragedy, out steps Alexander Drake himself, looking like he just stepped off a GQ cover in his charcoal suit and perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair.

Our eyes meet. His green ones widen slightly at my escort, then narrow with recognition.

Of course he knows who I am.The ass-hat probably signed my termination papers himself.

I adjust my grip on my sad little box of office memories and give him my sweetest smile. "Mr. Drake. Love what you've done with the place. Really getting that 'soul-sucking corporate wasteland' vibe down."

He actually looks startled, like he's not used to people talking back. "Ms. Gallo?—"

"Save it for your next TED Talk on 'Disrupting Human Decency.'" I sweep past him, head high, hips swaying in what I hope is a confident strut and not a desperate wobble.

I make it all the way to my car before the tears start. Twenty years. Gone in twenty minutes.

My phone buzzes. Lucia again: "Nonna says get here NOW. She's making her angry arancini."

I wipe my eyes, careful not to smudge my mascara. Fine. Okay. This is fine. I'm fine.

I start my car and pull up directions to my family's restaurant in my GPS—a habit I don't need after thirty years, but right now I need something familiar to focus on.

Something—other than the late October leaves—catches my eye as I drive past the building's event space: workers setting up for tonight's charity gala. Crystal champagne flutes gleam in the afternoon sun as they're unpacked.

Fancy champagne. Stuffy tech bros. An open bar.

I wonder if Drake Enterprises' charity gala tonight has a good security system. Because suddenly, I have some free time and a score to settle.

And I've always believed in killing two birds with one stone.

2

MAYBE IT'S THE WINE, MAYBE IT'S THE REVENGE

MACKENZIE

There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and the fact that you can't cry while eating your nonna's arancini. I'm pretty sure it's physically impossible. Something about the perfect ratio of crispy exterior to creamy risotto interior just doesn't allow for tears.

But as I walk into my family’s infamous Italian Seattle restaurant, La Famiglia, two thoughts are warring in my mind: the desire to eat my feelings and the increasingly tempting idea of crashing a certain charity gala tonight.

"Zia Mac! Zia Mac!"

My wallowing is interrupted by Sofia's twins, Marco and Luna, who barrel into me at waist height. At eight, they're the spitting image of their father - all long limbs and curly dark hair - but they've got the Gallo spirit through and through.

"Careful, miei tesori!" I steady myself against the hostess stand. "Zia's wearing her expensive suit."

"Why are you home so early?" Luna asks, brown eyes wide. "Did you finally quit that boring job?"

I wince. Out of the mouths of babes. "Not exactly, piccola."

"Bambini! Let your aunt breathe!" Silver-haired with skin as smooth as one of her decorative table apples, Nonna Flora emerges from the kitchen like an avenging angel wielding a wooden spoon. "Marco, Luna, go do your homework in the office. Now!"

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