CHAPTER FORTY
Dough clings to my fingers, stubborn as the thoughts that won't stop buzzing in my head. I slap it onto the counter, scattering flour like a miniature snowstorm in the cramped kitchen of Sal's Pizzeria. The scent of tomato sauce and mozzarella wrestles with the sharper tang of garlic hanging in the air. It should be comforting – it always is – but today, anxiety gnaws at my insides, restless and insatiable.
"Hey, Mia, toss me another ball of dough, will you?" Lucy's voice cuts through my distraction like a lifeline. I glance over at her, grateful for the interruption. She's elbow-deep in toppings, her smile as warm as the ovens lining the wall.
"Sure thing," I reply, forcing myself back to the task at hand. I peel off a chunk, roll it into a sphere, and lob it across to he
