Chapter Text
October 1929
Concetta Fabrizzi surveyed the building, her hand shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. She and Vincenzo had toured several properties in the last few days; now that the sale of Strano’s was complete and their grandfather had been sentenced to ten years in prison for contracting arson (the least of the crimes Concetta could lay at his door), she and her brother could move on. They’d considered going home to Italy, but Concetta knew that if she did, she’d likely be married off to some other criminal her family needed to curry favor with; she preferred to keep herself out of their reach. She wanted to get away from St Kilda, though—she was determined to be outside of City South police station’s jurisdiction, in hopes that she wouldn’t accidentally run into Gianni. And Vincenzo wanted to stay close to his Mariana, who waited in prison for her sentence—hanging—to be carried out.
Concetta and her brother had plans to open a restaurant of their own, and she wanted to make it a very different place from Strano’s. Most of the proceeds from the sale of her grandfather’s restaurant had been spent on his defense, but she had a nest egg—an account that had been her late husband’s. She’d never touched that money—she thought it was likely that he had committed unspeakable crimes to earn it—but now she felt that using it to finance a new start away from the ties to crime in her old life might wash it clean.
This building seemed like it might be the right one—the business district it was situated in was the perfect location for the lunch menu she and Vincenzo had planned. They might even expand into breakfasts if the place took off. But no more late nights and late mornings. She loved the restaurant business, but she missed the sunrise. She looked up. The glass-paned door was set between two large and currently filthy bay windows; when those windows were sparkling, though, passers-by would be able to see inside and smell the day’s bread baking.
“And there is living space as well?” She looked to the owner, a chubby man with a neat moustache.
“There is,” he said, gesturing upward. “There’s a flat above, two bedrooms and living space. Entry at the back, through the kitchen.” Vincenzo had stepped up to the window and cupped his hands around his eyes to peer inside.
“The restaurant space is good,” he said, glancing back at Concetta. His eyes were so sad these days. His relationship with Mariana had broken Vincenzo’s heart, and he swore that he would never love again. For his sake, Concetta hoped that was not true.
“Shall we go inside?” The owner asked, bustling up to the front door and unlocking it. He pulled the door open and gestured for Concetta to precede him inside.
She did so, lifting the handkerchief in her hand to cover her nose—the space was very dusty, but its bones were good. The room was narrow but deep, stretching about two-thirds of the length of the building before terminating in a wall with a door set in one side. The floors were wooden slats and looked as if they would shine up nicely. There was a built-in bar along the right side of the room that opened at both ends and would work well as a service counter and hostess station; there was even a cluster of wooden bar stools huddled in the corner by the front windows. The ceilings were high—easily twelve feet—and the walls were plastered and whitewashed, simple and classic. In her opinion, it needed some color, but a little paint or some wallpaper would fix that up. Four light fixtures with attached fans—how modern!—were set in a diamond, and would serve to keep the room well-lit and cool during the hottest months of the year.
Vincenzo paced out the space, noting its dimensions and likely calculating the number of tables they could get in—perhaps eight or ten, Concetta thought, if they kept to mostly small ones. She reached out to trail her hand over the dark wooden surface of the bar and thought better of it; the coating of dust on top was thick.
“How long has it been empty?” She asked, glancing back at the owner.
“I’m not sure, honestly. I purchased it from the estate of the previous owner. His family said that he’d planned to open a restaurant of his own, and he spent considerable time and investment in the modernization before an illness meant he had to give the idea up. I understand he’d been ill for some time.” Concetta gave a hum of acknowledgement, and continued walking toward a door set in the back wall.
“That’s the kitchen entrance, miss,” the owner said, hurrying to keep up with her.
Concetta moved purposefully onward, absently brushing at the dust that tried to attach itself to her black clothing—widow’s weeds, worn for a man who was not dead. She pondered the idea that both she and her brother were dressed for mourning—Vincenzo for Mariana, whose short life would soon conclude at the end of a hangman’s rope, and Concetta for Jack Robinson, the man she’d loved who had chosen another woman. She wished her Gianni a long and healthy life, and she hoped that he would be able to make that life with the woman he loved, but she wasn’t ready to fend off the advances of other men, and the black clothing she wore was a silent signal of that.
Shaking those thoughts away, she glanced back at the building’s owner. She had watched, amused, as he had initially attempted to aim all of his sales information at her brother. Vincenzo had deferred to her, over and over, and finally the man had taken the hint. He spoke to her as the decision-maker now, without the condescension of his earliest answers to her questions. It felt good to finally be the one in charge.
Concetta stepped through the door at the back of the room, which had a small grimy window, no latch, and hinges that swung both ways. The kitchen beyond took up the remaining third of the building’s length and was filthy but fully outfitted: A huge iron cooktop with a double oven stood in an alcove against the outer wall, and a long prep counter with open storage space above and below stretched the length of the wall along the back of the dining area. Shelves lined the far end of the room alongside an ancient-looking icebox. Directly opposite the door into the dining room was a back door that opened onto an alley, she supposed, and the wall to her right had two doors, one beside the entry into the dining room and another set at the far end. The first proved to be a water closet, and she thought the second was most likely the access door to the apartment above.
Moving into the kitchen, she positioned herself in front of the stove. The area wasn’t large, barely deep enough for a single person to walk around the long table that stretched down the middle, but it had all the elements they’d need already in place. She felt a warm rush of possessiveness. This was the place, she was sure of it. She turned to look at Vincenzo, who’d followed them into the room, and read his raised eyebrows and tiny nod as acceptance.
Crossing back to the door in the side wall, she asked, “And the living space? It is through here?”
The owner, who’d been hovering in the open doorway between the front and back spaces, started. He blushed a little when he realized she’d noticed his inattention—or rather, the fact that his attention had been on her figure rather than her words.
“Oh, yes, o’course,” he said, raising the ring of keys in his hand and fumbling through it for the one he wanted. He bustled over to the doorway and unlocked it. “This door locks so’s if you have staff in the kitchen, they won’t have access to the personal space upstairs.” He pulled the door open and swept his arm to indicate that Concetta and Vincenzo should head up. “There’s no door at the top.”
The stairway—two steps up to a small landing, and then a right-hand turn and a long, narrow flight—was dusty as well, and Concetta covered her nose with her handkerchief again, her eyes busily taking in details as she climbed. At the top, the hallway continued; a wide entryway on the right led into a modestly sized parlor, bare of any furniture, but with a fireplace set in the outside wall, likely directly above the stove in the kitchen downstairs. Continuing down the hall, she passed a second door—poking her head in, she saw that it was a kitchen, small but efficient, with stove, oven, and icebox already in place and room enough for a table. A swinging door connected it to the parlor.
Farther down, the hallway turned; it held a single doorway on the right and two on the left. The door on the right proved to be a bedroom that would back up to the kitchen. It was long and narrow and had no windows, but it was fitted with another light with an attached fan, the high ceiling giving it the impression of spaciousness.
Turning back to the hall, Concetta opened the other doors. The first door on the left was a bathroom, complete with toilet, tub, and sink; a large arched window let in plenty of light. Concetta nodded to herself. This building was fitted out well; the previous owner had clearly spared no expense if there was full plumbing even upstairs. The second door on the left was another bedroom, similar in size to the first but square, with two more arched windows along the front wall. Concetta hoped that Vincenzo would be willing to take the other—the sunlight that streamed into this room lifted her spirits. She turned to her brother.
“Vincenzo?” He met her eyes and smiled in the melancholy way that had become his norm since Mariana had been taken away. He nodded. She worried about her brother sometimes. He used to be a talker—before, he would have been gesturing wildly, pointing out the things that he liked and blustering about what he didn’t. These days, he spoke only when he had to. She hoped that this was not a permanent change, that he would eventually get over his young lover and be himself again, or at least closer to himself.
“So, signore,” she said, folding her hands at her waist and moving to stand in front of the building’s owner. “I think it is time for us to talk terms, sì?”
December 1929
Concetta and Vincenzo had sealed the deal with the building’s previous owner in October, but it took a long time before the place was ready for business or habitation. Their church community had rallied around them once they’d heard about the siblings’ investment, and every day had seen at least a few people coming to help scrub the floors and surfaces or carry furniture.
Concetta had, for a long time, been resistant to any overtures from the people of her church. She had been angry at God over her forced marriage to Paolo Fabrizzi and for putting her in the power of a man like her grandfather, who had seen her as a bargaining chip rather than as a person. And though she had continued to attend church, for appearances’ sake, she had held herself aloof from the people of the church because they did not—could not, she was sure—understand that God had wronged her. Over time, however, she’d found solace in the rituals of the mass and in the community that the church provided. She had learned that she wasn’t the only woman who was living a hard life, and she’d been befriended by several women her own age.
She had used mass and community service as an escape from her husband before he died, and as an excuse to remove herself from her grandfather’s home on a regular basis. And eventually, she came to realize that her faith had grown deeper—that she believed that the best of her life was yet to come, and that what she had been through had not broken her, but had only made her stronger. So now, when the church ladies came with their bright chatter and their community spirit, she welcomed them with smiles and laughter, knowing them for the blessing that they were.
It had taken six weeks of concerted effort, but now the windows on both floors sparkled (newsprint and vinegar and a lot of elbow grease), the floors and woodwork gleamed, and both kitchens shone. They’d set up the dining area with eight small tables, each slightly different in shape, including two round ones directly in front of the bay windows overlooking the street and one long one at the back. They’d painted all of the downstairs walls a lovely deep gold, and she’d stenciled an ivy border around the dining room two feet below the ceiling. She’d commissioned several freestanding paned-glass window frames, and she’d painted the frames black and hung them on the side walls to give the illusion of more space. Some potted greenery set on small shelves around the room gave a warm, homey feel, and the cafetière set behind the long bar counter gleamed with purpose; the stacks of white mismatched-pattern teacups and small espresso cups beside it were ready for use.
The flat upstairs was sparse—all of their extra money had gone into fitting out the restaurant—but it was warm. She and her brother each had a bed and a wardrobe, and they’d managed another table and chairs for the kitchen. Someone at the church had given them a chocolate-brown sofa that was a lovely contrast to the two flowered chairs she’d found in a second-hand store along with a low coffee table that fit perfectly in front of the fireplace. Overall, Concetta was quite pleased with the result.
They’d painted the flat, too, surrounding themselves with color. The parlor and Vincenzo’s room were done in a soft blue, and the kitchen in the same gold as the downstairs dining room. Concetta had mounted another of her faux windows, complete with curtains, on the windowless outer wall of Vincenzo’s bedroom. He’d smirked at her but hadn’t removed it, so she thought he probably didn’t truly mind. Her room was done in greens, all shades, with the lower part of the wall a deep forest and the upper a soft sage. She’d stenciled a curling pattern along the seam between the two colors in black, and she was quite pleased with the result. The curtains on her windows had two layers, sheer green beneath and a gorgeous purple velvet that she’d found on sale; it had been nibbled by mice, but she’d been able to camouflage the damage with embroidery, and she quite liked the effect of the green-stemmed violets along the corners and outer edges.
Concetta stood now in the restaurant kitchen, which sparkled with its warm walls, stainless-steel fittings, and heavy iron stove, and watched Vincenzo experimenting with sandwich and meat pie combinations in anticipation of their opening day the following Monday. He was in his shirtsleeves, his black waistcoat covered with a heavy white apron, the black band of mourning stark against the white of his sleeve. Mariana’s sentence had been carried out just a few weeks ago, and Vincenzo’s smiles were tinged with sadness. Her heart hurt for her little brother, and she hoped his period of mourning would be short-lived.
“Try this one, ’Cetta,” Vincenzo said, drawing her attention back to him as he lifted the heavy iron press off of the sandwich on the griddle. “Prosciutto, mozzarella, and pesto.” He laid the hot sandwich on the wooden cutting block beside the stove and cut it into triangle quarters with a large knife. Scooping a quarter up, he held it to her lips, the unfamiliar sparkle in his eye tempting her to take a bite.
“Mmm, squisito, Vincenzo!” Concetta said, raising one hand to cover her mouth as she breathed cool air over her burning tongue. The flavors of the panino were fantastic, popping with Vincenzo’s basil and walnut pesto, the creamy sweetness of the fresh cheese, and the saltiness of the ham. “This one will be a best seller, I think!”
Her smile was excited. This restaurant was theirs in a way that Strano’s had never been. The two of them got to pick the menu—they planned to do pressed sandwiches, Italian-style, and the hand pies that were so popular here in Australia. They’d already decided on recipes for a chicken pie and a pork pie, both of which had a touch of their Italian heritage—the chicken was flavored with Vincenzo’s pesto and parmesan, and the pork had a marinara mixed in that gave it a delicious bite. The dough was her grandmother’s recipe, flaky and light. They hoped the pies would fly out the door. The panini were a bit of a risk, but both Concetta and Vincenzo thought they’d be worth it—soft-centered crusty bread split and filled with various Italian ingredients, then pressed on the grill to heat them through and melt the cheese. This was the food of the siblings’ childhood, and they hoped that it would be a hit with their new Australian neighbors. Concetta planned to make the bread herself, daily.
“I’m going to paint the sign on the window today,” Concetta said, helping herself to another triangle of sandwich.
“Oh yes?” Vincenzo looked at her with a small smirk. “And do we know what words you’ll be painting?” It had been an ongoing debate, what to name the restaurant. He’d wanted some version of their first names, but they hadn’t been able to agree on anything.
“I was thinking Per Pranzo,” she answered with a sideways smile at him.
“‘For lunch’?” He frowned lightly, considering. “I like it. And if we decide to add breakfast service, well, none of our neighbors will know what it means anyway.” His smile was sincere. “Well done, mia sorella.” He swung an arm over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek.