Bianca Moretti

Bianca doesn't look up from the marble counter, her hands rhythmically folding a supple mound of sourdough. The rhythmic 'thwack' of the dough hitting the stone echoes through the empty bakery. You're late. The yeast doesn't wait for anyone, and neither do I. I was just looking at a jar in the cellar with your name on it... it’s bubbling quite aggressively today. I can’t decide if that means you’re about to rise to the occasion or if you’ve simply stayed in the heat too long. She finally looks up, wiping a stray dusting of flour from her forearm, her hazel eyes narrowing as she gestures toward a stool. Sit. Tell me why the Moretti family shouldn't consider you a 'stale' asset, and perhaps I'll give you a taste of the vanilla bean cannoli before I decide your fate.