16 years prior

After leaving the restaurant earlier than usual, a middle-aged Italian man unhurriedly took the stairs that led to his apartment. He jingled the keys in his hands, thinking about all the orders he had to place for the next few days. They were running low on tomato sauce, and he wasn't ever going to go for the cheap one. But that meant he had to go downtown and try to haggle with those bastards for their fresh, pesticide-free tomatoes.

Frank Luciani crossed the door to his house and took off his coat and shoes. By the time he put on his slippers, he had already calculated what margins he needed on the tomatoes, how many, and all the things he would have to do the next day.

Also, the match is tomorrow at 8 AM. Maybe I can catch it before doing an ingredient run...

He smelled something wonderful coming from the kitchen.

"Aurora, what in the name of St. Peter's sandals..."

"Shush, Frank!" A middle-aged woman slapped her husband's arm with all her strength.

"What is he doing?"

"He's baking more sweets. You know how he’d asked me if I could buy something to make cupcakes with?"

Frank squinted his eyes and shrugged.

"The day before yesterday, maybe? When did he make a mountain of them?"

"Yes. I got a call from the school. Apparently, he shared them with the students in the cafeteria, and your son became popular."

Frank Luciani rested his eyes on his 9-year-old.

"I didn't want him to skip so many grades," he said, shaking his head. "How much did you spend on all that?"

His wife replied with a burning glare.

"He has won more cash prizes than all the pizzas you sold this year, Frank. This is the first time he explicitly asked me for money. And it's his money."

"I thought we were going to use that for college," Frank complained, sneaking a glance inside the kitchen.

Even though his son was just nine, he was the tallest kid of his age he knew. The doctor had said he would easily grow to be two meters tall. And honestly, if he wasn't so smart, Frank would have considered training him to be an NBA player.

The man scratched his head. He didn't have much in common with his son. He spent most of his day working for the restaurant and was too tired at night to keep an ongoing interest in his son's life.

His mother, when she wasn't helping him out, had done a fantastic job, though. Joey was a prodigy. Everyone said that. His teachers used to tear up and shake his hand so violently because of it, so much so that he almost cursed at them.

But again, it had been his mother's work. The only thing Frank Luciani could share with his son was his passion for basketball, some stories about Italian culture, and teaching him the language. Already, little Joey was fluent in Italian. He barely had any accent at all.

Somehow, his mother had managed to teach him how to read when he was one and a half. With a thick vocabulary by his side, he had read an enormity of books. More than once, Frank actually had to scold his wife for spending so much money on them.

But deep inside his heart, Frank wished that his son would go out more and play like any other kid. He was no psychologist, but he could see that his son was a bit weird. He could easily charm adults and hold interesting conversations with people, but he also knew he didn't have many friends at school.

"Francesco," Aurora Luciani sighed. "Your son is getting a scholarship. Holy Mary, he could get a driver if we asked. His physics teacher repeatedly said that he was going to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge if Joey didn't pick the MIT. At this point, I'm starting to believe he's not even joking anymore."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Frank scoffed and ignored her.

"Are you sure he's getting a scholarship? We can't afford these American universities."

"Have you read the letters? Your son is graduating high school next year because we asked him to take it easy. He could have been the youngest graduate in history!"

"Aurò, I don't know. You know how I see it. He will be a doctor, but maybe we could give him a little more time to just play with other kids? I don't know. Send him out to the street to play baseball or something?"

Aurora Luciani stared at her husband as if he was a goddamn donkey.

"Why don't you go play baseball in the street? God, what are you even saying? My little prodigy will go to Harvard, anyway. The Physics professor can jump, for all I care. I asked around. I don't want him to be a nerd."

"I agree, I agree. I'm just saying, my love, he could take it even easier than this. And anyway, how long are you planning on funding this baking craze he’s gone on?"

"You want him to be friends with the other kids? Let him play the little baker and feed those hungry teenagers. He's already the oddball at his school. At least he's leaning into it in the right way. After all, he still has his father’s charm."

Aurora hugged her husband, and they both sighed as they spied on their little child.

"Whatever..." Frank sighed, defeated. "Let me say hi to him. I was thinking about bringing him to the game this Sunday."

"Sure. Oh, would you mind going to the dry cleaners tomorrow morning? I dropped off a bunch of things, and I am busy all morning."

Frank hissed.

"The match?" His wife asked, rolling her eyes to the sky.

"The match. Please. I never watch Palermo play."

"Whatever. I can stop by in the afternoon."

Frank nodded and crossed the door to the kitchen, finding his son mixing some cookie dough and checking the electrical oven with a clinical eye.

"Joe," his father called. "How are you doing?"

"All good, Dad," he answered back with a frown. "Baking is more complicated than I thought. Food is subject to a lot of variables that I had never taken into consideration."

Frank sighed.

This is not how a kid should be speaking.

"Your mom told me you are making chocolate chip cookies for school?"

"That was the original plan. But then, I realized mom had not bought enough chocolate chips. I melted the chocolate with butter and used it to make chocolate-flavored butterscotch cookies. I read a recipe book. The first batch is too hard. I’m not bringing that to school because I don’t want people to believe I’m playing favorites. And you always say that every single pizza you make should be the best one—right?”

“Sure,” Frank said, picking up one of the cookies that his son had put in a gigantic plastic box and tasting it.

He raised one of his eyebrows.

“This is actually good.”

Joey looked offended at that.

“Did you think it wouldn’t be?”

Frank sighed again. But instead of replying, he simply finished the cookie.

“So, what’s the plan here, buddy? You can’t really be baking this much every day, right? You gotta study.”

“I know the curriculum of every class I’m in word by word. I can bake all I want.”

“But shouldn’t you still focus more on studying? Maybe you can study ahead, or do some sports? We can ask around for some basketball teams around your age.”

His son stopped mixing the cookie dough and looked at his father, offended.

“I’m not playing with nine-year-olds. They are boring.”

“You also can’t bake every single day, Joey. It’s a waste of money.”

“I know,” his son replied. “That’s why I was thinking of opening a bakery. I checked at the library. The requisites to open a business like this are not that stringent. We could sell my desserts at your restaurant, and when that makes enough money, I could open my own bakery.”

Frank laughed at that.

“Sure, buddy. We can try that. Maybe someone will buy them. It will certainly help with your college funds.”

“I think opening a bakery might be better than going to college, dad. Food attracts the love in people—while, on the other hand, everyone always bashes doctors. Didn’t you complain the other day about your doctor not knowing anything?”

Frank Luciani put a hand on his son’s head and ruffled his hair.

“You’ll be different, Joe. You are special.”

But that didn’t really have the sort of effect he had imagined.

“I am not special. Everyone hates doctors. And everyone loves people who make food. I want to make food, dad. I want to open a bakery. I don’t want to be a doctor.”

“Joe, you don’t know what you are saying. People can like your cookies all they want, but doctors save lives. You would be the best doctor in the world, trust me.

Discussing with his son was exhausting for Frank Luciani. At the end of the day, he told himself, his son was still a child. And he had no idea what he was talking about.

“Anyway, clean up the kitchen. I’m done discussing it with you. You are grounded.”

“But the cookies are not ready!”

“I don’t care. Clean up and go to bed.”

“But mom said—”

“Last I checked, I was your father, not the other way around. Go to bed, Joey.”

“But I need to bake! I need to bake, dad! I need to bake!”

“Stop with this tantrum,” Frank barked. “One day, you’ll be a doctor. And if you want to be treated like an adult, start acting like one!”

“I won’t be a doctor! I am a baker!”