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turning it into.”
    â€œYou don’t know that, Anthony,” Michael insisted.
    Anthony’s response was an unintelligible grunt.
    â€œLet’s just wait and see what the PR people come up with and we’ll talk about it then.” He sighed. “ C’mon, ” he said, jostling Anthony’s shoulder. “Try to have an open mind.”
    â€œI already told you: I don’t want anything to do with your PR bullshit. How much is this going to cost, by the way?”
    â€œDon’t worry about that,” Michael assured him. “I’ve got it covered.”
    â€œNo, tell me,” Anthony insisted, wiping down the cutting board and the mezzaluna blade. “I’m curious.”
    â€œThirty,” Michael admitted reluctantly.
    â€œThirty K!” Anthony exclaimed. “What are you, ubatz ?”
    â€œWait and see,” Michael insisted. “It’s going to pay off big time and you know who’s going to reap the rewards? You and me.”
    â€œMy life’s rewarding enough,” Anthony said, sauntering over to a row of cabinets where he pulled out a bag of candied citron. “But hey, you want to piss your money away, you go right ahead. Thirty K,” he chuckled to himself. “ Madonn’ .” He carried the citron back to the table, and tearing the bag with his teeth, shook the contents out onto the cutting board and began dicing again with the mezzaluna. “So that PR woman, Theresa. She’s the one you’ve got the hots for, right?”
    Michael frowned. “Could you be a little more respectful, please?”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry, is my blunt language offending your delicate sensibilities?”
    â€œVaffanculo!”
    Anthony laughed. “Look whose trash-talking now.” He popped a piece of citron into his mouth. “Seriously, she’s the one, right?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œSo what’s the deal? You hiring her to do all this PR crap because you really care about the restaurant, or because you wanted an excuse to see her?”
    Michael shook his head in disbelief. “I had no idea she was going to show up. It could just as easily have been her business partner.” Of course, he would never tell Anthony that in hiring FM PR, he was well aware his path would cross more frequently with Theresa’s. Not that it seemed to matter.
    â€œBesides,” he added, taking some citron for himself. “She doesn’t seem to like me.”
    â€œMaybe because you’re an arrogant, meddling jackass,” Anthony suggested.
    â€œThat could be it. We know her folks: Dominic and Natalie Falconetti.”
    â€œThe Falconettis.” Anthony paused, trying to place the names. “Veal sorrentino and fettucini alfredo, two slices of olive-oil cake afterward with espresso. They haven’t been here for a while.”
    â€œThe old man is sick.” Suddenly Michael had an idea, his eyes scouring the kitchen. “In fact . . . I was thinking of stopping by and saying hello to them before I head out for the game tonight. Would you mind putting together a care package for me?”
    â€œYou sure you got time? I could drop by there tomorrow morning.”
    â€œI want to do it.”
    Anthony’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at his little brother and winked. “Yeah, of course you do. Just let me finish up with this citron and I’ll fix a nice little plate for each of them.”
    â€œI appreciate that.”
    â€œNow can I call my staff back in?”
    â€œGo ahead,” said Michael. “And make sure you tell them great changes are on the way.”
    Anthony ignored him.
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    â€œAny messages?”
    Theresa drummed her nails impatiently on the glass-topped reception desk while Terrence, FM PR’s receptionist, took his sweet time closing the Vanity Fair he’d been absorbed in. Delicately licking his right index finger, he began thumbing through the small