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“So what? You’re not gonna bully your way into settingmymenu. Nice try, but I don’t work for you.”

“It’s called common fucking courtesy,” I growled, stepping into his space. “It’s called not being a jackass.”

Rob lips twisted unpleasantly as he nudged the toe of his shoe to mine. “How amIthe jackass here?”

“You’re openly competing with an established business in a small town. That’s fucking hostile.”

He knit his eyebrows fiercely. “I’m making fucking bagels. Bagels don’t compete with pizza.”

“Until they do,” I countered.

Geez, his eyes were the clearest shade of blue and his lips were full and—Oh, no.No hate-lusting after the enemy allowed.

“You’re out of line or out of your mind…or both,” he huffed.

“Right…to you, this might be a joke. To us, pizza is a legacy that my family has carried on for generations.”

Rob rolled those fucking pretty eyes and paced toward the refrigerator. “I never said or insinuated that this was a joke. But I will say that I wouldn’t have asked Amber to come up with new pizza recipes if you hadn’t basically challenged me to do it. So now…you bet your ass I’m making these bagels.”

“Two can play that game.” I shot him a condescending smirk and showed some restraint by not grabbing another bagel bite on my way out the door. “It’s on, Vilmer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he called after me.

Fuck if I knew. I was spouting gibberish and digging a nice hole for myself.

Yeah, in string of lows, I’d officially hit a new one.

ChapterFour

Mateo

“Pizza bagels? What the fuck?”

“Should be easy. We just do the dough different. The rest is the same,” I bluffed.

My cousins treated me to a three-way blank stare from across the counter. It was almost comical since they all looked alike. Well, not exactly. Sal was heavyset and balding, Jimmy was a gym rat with copious tats, and Vanni reminded me of a skinny rock star. But the Cavaretti genes were strong. We all had olive skin, dark hair, prominent noses, and some mystery family trait that made it obvious that we were related.

Sal broke the silence. “What are you up to, Teo? You don’t just up and start making bagels. You gotta do the research. We lack some crucial equipment that costs money.”

Vanni nodded. “Yeah, we don’t have that thing they use. What’s it called?”

“A kettle,” Jimmy replied. “You gotta boil them in water, and there’s the dough, and who’s gonna do it all plus make the pizza?”

“You could ask Ma,” Vanni suggested.

“You kidding me? I’m not working with Ma. Or Aunt Therese…no offense, Teo. I love your mom, but this”—Sal gestured between the four of us—“this is ours.”

“Fuckin’ right it’s ours.”

“No one said it’s not and…”

I held my hands up in surrender, or defeat, as the three brothers talked over each other, Cavaretti-style. Dinners at Aunt Sylvie’s or my mom’s were noisy affairs, and that was putting it mildly. There were a lot of us, and no one was particularly reserved. I was an only child, but Uncle Sal and Aunt Sylvie had three daughters plus these three dingdongs, ten grandkids and counting. Not to mention the in-laws.

A little Cavaretti backstory: Our great-grandparents had immigrated from Italy in 1900 and opened a restaurant in Brooklyn. One of their sons inherited the business, and the other moved west to Haverton. So I hadn’t been kidding when I’d told Rob this was a family legacy. Boardwalk Pizza had been passed on from generation to generation. This place had been Dad’s and Uncle Sal’s pride and joy. But they were both gone now, and it was up to us to carry on.

Jimmy and Vanni were closer in age and argued about everything while Sal and I were the practical ones. My degree in accounting from Haverton pushed me into the business portion while Sal oversaw the kitchen. The others pitched in to do whatever was needed. We had a few non-Cavarettis on the payroll, but the four of us made all the big decisions.

Like bagels.