Chapter 2: Local Bakery
The lemon lavender shortbread had been a pale, crumbly success. A fine dusting of icing sugar and edible violet petals now adorned the cooling rack, and a floury peace had settled over the kitchen. Angel was meticulously washing a glass bowl, his curls tied up in a messy bun with a pink scarf, humming along to the quiet music from his phone. Alex had retreated to the living room floor with her tablet, one shortbread triangle already held between her teeth as she sketched.
Dominic emerged from the back hallway, the heavy smell of engine grease and soap clinging to his skin, his hair damp from a post-garage shower. He was pulling on a worn leather jacket over a black t-shirt.
“Running to Santino’s,” he announced, patting his pockets for his keys. “Before the good bread’s all gone. Needs?”
Avery, now on the couch with her feet tucked under her, didn’t look up from her phone. “Grab me a loaf of that pugliese. The crusty one. And if they’ve got those pepper and onion focaccia twists, yes.”
“Got it.” Dominic’s eyes went to Alex.
She held up a buttery finger. “One of those massive chocolate-dipped cannoli. No, two. And a bag of taralli. The spicy ones.”
“Cannoli and taralli. Angel?”
Angel turned off the tap, drying his hands on a towel with tiny embroidered strawberries. “Just a slice of the schiacciata, please. If they have any left.”
Dominic’s brows furrowed slightly. Schiacciata was the flat, olive-oiled Tuscan bread, simple and perfect. “That’s it? You’re not gonna make a sandwich with it? You barely ate lunch.”
“I had shortbread dough,” Angel said, a faint, defensive smile on his lips. “I’m fine. I can use the mortadella and mozzarella we have here.”
“The mozzarella’s two days old. It’s weeping in its container.” Dominic’s tone was practical, but there was an edge of concern underneath it. Angel’s appetite was a family barometer; when he was anxious or tired, it was the first thing to go. “You want some fresh stuff? Prosciutto? Those roasted peppers you like?”
“Daddy, it’s okay. Really. Just the schiacciata.”
Dominic held his gaze for a moment, then nodded, the decision made. “Alright. Be back in twenty.”
The roar of his motorcycle tearing down the quiet street was a brief, familiar thunder. The house settled back into its afternoon rhythm. Angel finished cleaning, his movements slow and methodical. Alex’s stylus tapped a steady rhythm on her tablet’s edge.
“He’s gonna get you the peppers,” Alex said, not looking up.
“He is not.”
“He so is. And the fresh mozzarella. In the little ball, floating in water. Not the pre-shredded garbage.”
“He said just the schiacciata.”
Avery snorted, finally putting her phone down. “Baby, when have either of us ever won an argument about your wellbeing against that man? If he thinks you need a sandwich, you’re getting a sandwich. Hell, he’s probably buying the whole damn deli counter.”
Angel’s flush returned, but it was mixed with a fond exasperation. “He doesn’t have to.”
“Of course he doesn’t have to,” Avery said, her voice softening. “He wants to. It’s his love language. Meat and cheese.”
Twenty minutes later, the motorcycle’s growl announced his return. The front door opened, letting in a gust of cool air and the complex, yeasty perfume of the bakery. Dominic entered, a large brown paper bag cradled in one arm like a football.
“Alright, loot’s here.”
He set the bag on the broad kitchen island. Alex was there in an instant, a predator drawn by the scent of sugar. Dominic swatted her hand away. “Hold your horses, vulture.” He began pulling out items, his hands sure and gentle with the parcels.
“Pugliese for the boss.” He handed the round, crackle-crusted loaf to Avery, who took it and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in appreciation.
“Taralli.” A paper cone of small, peppery knot-shaped crackers went to Alex. “Cannoli.” A white box, slightly grease-spotted, followed. Alex popped the lid immediately, eyeing the twin pastries filled with ricotta cream.
“For the minimalist,” Dominic said, his voice shifting into something lighter, a performance just for Angel. He produced a wax-paper packet, carefully unfolded it. Inside was a generous, golden slice of schiacciata, its dimpled surface shimmering with olive oil and grains of salt.
Angel reached for it, a genuine smile on his face. “Thank you, Daddy. It’s perfect.”
“I know,” Dominic said. Then, without pause, he began pulling more items from the seemingly bottomless bag, lining them up on the granite counter with a magician’s flourish.
A small tub of fresh mozzarella perline, the tiny pearls floating in milky brine. A vacuum-sealed pack of silky, rosy prosciutto di Parma. A container of glossy, fire-roasted red and yellow peppers. A small jar of sun-dried tomato pesto. A bag of arugula so fresh it looked like it had been picked minutes ago. And finally, a delicate round of focaccia, studded with rosemary.
Angel stared at the spread, his mouth slightly open. “Daddy.”
“What?” Dominic’s face was the picture of innocent practicality. “You said you had mortadella. It’s old. This is better. The schiacciata is a little plain on its own, needs some heft. The focaccia is for if you want to toast it. I wasn’t sure.”
Avery let out a loud, crackling laugh from the couch. She hauled herself up and ambled into the kitchen, leaning her hip against the counter to survey the bounty. “Unbelievable. You just went out for bread.”
“I went to a bakery. They sell adjacent things.”
“Adjacent things? Dom, you bought the entire antipasto platter. You bought a sandwich that could be featured in a goddamn food magazine.” She shook her head, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Angel, I swear to God. It’s a miracle you haven’t turned into a complete, irrevocable, capital-B Brat with the way this man spoils you. It’s a systemic, top-down spoilage operation.”
Angel was already reaching for the mozzarella, his embarrassment melting into a quiet, focused pleasure. “It’s just a sandwich.”
“It’s a constructed sandwich,” Alex corrected, mouth full of taralli. “With curated ingredients. Dad, did you get balsamic glaze?”
Dominic snapped his fingers, a mock frown on his face. “Knew I forgot something.”
“You did not!” Avery cried. “Do not go back out there!”
Dominic grinned, fishing into the bag one last time. He pulled out a small, expensive-looking glass bottle with a spout. It was, indeed, a thick, aged balsamic glaze. He set it down with a final, definitive click next to the peppers.
Angel looked from the array of food to his father’s face, which was now beaming with unashamed satisfaction. The love was so palpable, so physical in the form of cured meats and artisanal cheese, that it tightened his throat. He never knew how to articulate the feeling—this immense, quiet safety of being so thoroughly looked after.
“I’ll make you one too,” Angel said softly, his fingers brushing over the cool jar of pesto.
“Nah, I’m good with some focaccia,” Dominic said, but he was already pulling a cutting board from the rack, handing Angel the serrated bread knife.
Avery watched as Angel set to work, his movements precise. He split the schiacciata, lightly scraped a layer of the sun-dried tomato pesto on both sides, layered the prosciutto so it lay in gentle ruffles, scattered the mozzarella pearls like edible pearls, arranged the peppers in a bright, messy tangle, and finished with a handful of peppery arugula. He drizzled the balsamic glaze in a careful zigzag over the top.
He didn’t just make a sandwich. He composed it.
When he was done, he carefully sliced it diagonally—the only proper way—and placed one half on a plate. He handed it to Dominic. “To share.”
Dominic took the plate, his black eyes soft. “Thanks, kid.” He took a bite. A low, appreciative groan vibrated in his chest. “Perfect. See? Needed the stuff.”
Avery was still leaning on the counter, her arms crossed. The amusement on her face had gentled into something more profound, more observational. She looked at her husband, his stern features softened as he chewed, utterly content with the gift he had given and now received back. She looked at her son, carefully assembling his own half, a tiny, contented smile on his lips as he tasted his creation.
“You know,” she said, her voice dropping, losing its edge of comedy for something more genuine. “I’m not actually surprised you’re not a brat. Spoiling implies you just get things. But he,” she nodded at Dominic, “he doesn’t just give you stuff. He pays attention. He notices what you like, what you need before you even do. That’s not spoiling. That’s… devotion. It’s harder to be a brat when the love is that specific.”
Angel paused, a piece of mozzarella pearl poised on his fork. He looked at his mother, then at his father, who was now pretending to be deeply interested in the crumb structure of his bread.
Alex, sensing a moment threatening to become too sincere, swooped in. She reached over and plucked a single, perfect piece of prosciutto from Angel’s sandwich. “Yeah, yeah, devotion. It’s also delicious. This is like, nine dollars a pound, Dad?”
“Twelve,” Dominic muttered.
“Devotion tastes expensive,” Alex declared, popping the stolen meat into her mouth.
Angel didn’t protest the theft. He just picked up his half of the sandwich, the bread crackling slightly under his fingers. He took a bite. The flavors bloomed: the salty-fat of the prosciutto, the sweet acid of the peppers, the cool cream of the mozzarella, the sharp bite of the arugula and the deep, sweet tang of the balsamic tying it all together. It was, objectively, the best sandwich he’d ever tasted.
It wasn’t the ingredients, though they were perfect. It was the fact that every single component had been chosen for him. It was a sandwich that said, I see you. I know you.
“Okay,” Angel admitted quietly, after he swallowed. “It’s better with the fresh stuff.”
Dominic’s resulting smile was triumphant, wide enough to crease the corners of his eyes. He said nothing. He just took another bite, his gaze resting on his son, warm as the afternoon sun now slating through the kitchen window.
Avery finally broke the silence, pushing off the counter. “Alright, this is too damn idyllic. I’m getting jealous of a sandwich.” She grabbed a piece of the pugliese and ripped a hunk off with her hands. “But the next time one of you needs a favour, I’m just buying you a single, sad-looking granola bar. See how you like that love language.”
But she was smiling as she said it, her teeth tearing into the crusty bread, her eyes sweeping over her family, crammed into their flour-dusted, bread-scented kitchen, full of a contentment so deep it felt like a living thing in the room with them.