Page 3 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"But Nonna?—"

"Now!" She points with the spoon, and they scatter. Say what you want about Italian grandmothers, but they know how to command respect. Especially when armed with cooking implements.

"Mangia! Mangia!" Nonna immediately waves a plate under my nose. "You're too skinny. This is what happens when you work for those tech people. All computers, no carbs!"

I'm quickly surrounded by enough food to feed a small army. Or in this case, enough to feed one unemployed birthday girl's wounded pride.

The restaurant won't open for dinner service for another hour, which means I have my family's full, undivided, slightly terrifying attention.

"Nonna, I'm not too skinny. And I can't eat anymore." I pat my red suit, which is definitely feeling tighter than it was this morning. "Besides, I'm pretty sure 'death by comfort food' isn't the kind of revenge I'm looking for."

"Revenge is for people who don't have good pasta," Nonna declares, adding more parmesan to my plate despite my protests. "And birthday girls don't skip meals."

From behind the bar, my younger sister Lucia snorts, her dark bob swaying. "Yeah, about that birthday thing..." She slides me a large glass of wine. "Only you would manage to get fired on your birthday. That's some next-level bad luck, even for a Gallo."

"Thanks for the sympathy, Luce. Really feeling the sister love here." I take a sip of wine, thinking about the gala invitationstill tucked in my purse. The one I'd planned to decline because I thought I'd be too busy with work.

Funny how things change.

"Hey, I poured you the expensive wine, didn't I?" She leans forward, her jet black strands falling over her green eyes. At thirty-five, Lucia got all the classic Italian beauty genes. I got... well, let's just say I'm the only Gallo who has to explain that yes, this deep brown is my natural hair color, and no, I don't know where the red came from. "So, what's the plan?"

"The plan?" I take another large sip of wine, trying to look innocent. "Other than drinking this entire bottle and binge-eating my way through Nonna's kitchen?”

"Oh no," my oldest sister Sofia—tall with stick-straight strands down to her waist—appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "That's not a plan. That's a pity party. We don't do pity parties in this family."

"Says the woman who had a three-day crying jag when her sourdough starter died," I mutter into my wine glass.

"That was different! Leonardo had been with me for five years!"

"You named your sourdough starter Leonardo?"

"Focus!" Lucia snaps her fingers. "Something's going on in that head of yours. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The same look you had when you decided to leave Roberto after he suggested you become a 'traditional wife' instead of taking that promotion." Sofia crosses her arms. "The 'I'm about to do something either brilliant or insane' look."

Roberto. The sound of my ex-husband’s name alone makes me wince.

But I shrug it off.

Turning the wince into a smile, I pull out my phone, showing them the post about Drake. "Already started on the brilliant-slash-insane plan."

Sofia reads it aloud, her eyes widening. "Everything wrong with tech bros, wrapped in an overpriced suit." She whistles. "Damn, sorella. You don't pull punches."

"Why start now?" I reach for more arancini AKA stress balls you can eat.

"Speaking of Drake..." Lucia's got that look in her eye. The one that usually ends with me in trouble and her claiming it was "for my own good." "Isn't tonight that fancy charity gala?"

I finger the invitation in my purse. "Maybe."

"And you still have your ticket, right?"

"Lucia Valentina Gallo, I know exactly what you're thinking?—"

"What? I'm just saying what you're already thinking." She grins. "I saw that look in your eye when you walked in. You're plotting something."

"No." Sofia points her wooden spoon at both of us. "No, no, no. Remember what happened the last time you two plotted together?"

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