But how long could she go on like this? Since that tragic night she had the feeling that disaster was lurking around every corner, waiting to pounce. She didn’t want to live this way. In fear. But how could she break the negative cycle?
The family had poured so much love into Mozzarella Moretti for generations.
It wasn’t just about making money. The company took genuine pride in offering a high quality, fairly priced product to local businesses, and a happy, nurturing workplace to their loyal employees.
But after barely a few months with her at the helm, the ship was starting to sink; profits were dwindling, staff morale was low and some customers were even starting to shop elsewhere.
Time to get real, Elena. You’re a teacher, not a businesswoman.
But first and foremost, she was a mother.
She tiptoed to Stefano’s bedroom, opening the door a fraction. He was sleeping soundly, Buzz Lightyear by his side. Her heart swelled at the sight of him; innocent, unaware.
She sat down gently on the edge of the bed. She lovingly stroked his black, silken hair, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, her eyes brimming with tears and love.
Watching Stefano running, diving and leaping around the football pitch that afternoon, she had been reminded of how far he’d come since she’d had to tell him that his daddy, his chief storyteller,football coach and superhero was never coming home. Now, as she watched his long eyelashes flicker in a dream, she was taken back to that terrible night.
Giancarlo had called her earlier that evening, brimming with excitement.
‘Put the prosecco on ice,cara. We have signed our first international client.’
‘Dio mio! You mean Sarastro & Salieri?’
‘Essato! Mozzarella Moretti will soon be available to buy in their Glasgow and London stores!’
‘That’s—’
‘Aspetta,that’s not all… Mr Conti, the Managing Director, agreed to feature the factory and some of Mamma Moretti’s recipes in their next cookbook. Gotta go,cara. I told him I’d run him to the airport.’
‘But I thought… I promised Stefano you would read him a bedtime story.’
‘Tell him tomorrow night I will read himtwostories.Ti amo. Ciao.’
Elena sighed. ‘Okay, but hurry home.’
Later that night there was a knock at the door.
‘Imbecille.You forgot your key ag—?’
As soon as she glimpsed the police uniform and the strained face and bleak eyes of her husband’s best friend, Dario, her smile disintegrated, her stomach plummeting like a drop tower. ‘I’m so sorry, Elena. It’s Giancarlo…’
The words ‘crash’, ‘clifftop’, ‘control’, ‘explosion’ echoed cavernously in her ear. She felt reality slipping away, as she slumped to the floor.
Later, finally alone, she had knelt outside Stefano’s room, holding a cushion to her face to deaden her mournful cries.
The early morning sun filtered through the blinds. She had willed the daylight to disappear.
Then she had forced herself to wake him, to try to explain. She had held him close, rocking back and forth. ‘Shh, shh.’
The look of fear and bewilderment in the boy’s huge, liquid-brown eyes, and the quiver of his chin as he bravely tried to process what she had just told him, ripped her heart in two. She felt sure it would haunt her for the rest of her life.
His eyes were so like his father’s, which had captivated her from the moment they had met. She and Giancarlo were both from Torre Annunziata, a small town at the foot of Mount Vesuvius in Naples, yet it was on the Central Line of the London Tube that destiny decided to bring them together.
It was 2006 and Elena was running late for her English class. She had dived onto the packed carriage at Tottenham Court Road, just as the doors were closing.
As the train pulled away it jostled, then braked suddenly, sending Elena into the arms of a dark stranger.
‘Scusi.I… I mean sorry,’ she’d said, a blush creeping up into her cheeks, as she reached for the grab handle.
