"Say Fat One More Time" — the Plus-Size Pie Maker Warned the Elegant Woman in Silver, and Then the Banana Cream Flew Across the Ballroom of Milwaukee's Most Feared Man

"Marco," Luca said, not raising his voice.

The heavy enforcer who had nearly grabbed Roz stepped forward instantly, his eyes locked on the floor. "Yes, Mr. Benedetti?"

"Escort Miss Vance to the service elevator," Luca instructed, his tone conversational. "Have her car brought to the back alley. Ensure she leaves the premises immediately."

Serena gasped, her mouth dropping open, custard smearing across her teeth. "The service elevator?! You are throwing me out of my own gala through the garbage exit?!"

"You are no longer the chair of this committee," Luca said smoothly. "The board will accept your resignation tomorrow morning at nine. If your resignation is not on my desk by nine-fifteen, my attorneys will initiate a forensic audit of the event’s promotional expenses over the last six months."

Serena’s face drained of what little color was left beneath the yellow cream. She knew what that audit would find—the private car services, the designer gowns billed as 'administrative overhead,' the lavish hotel suites in Chicago charged to the Salvatore Benedetti Foundation.

"You wouldn't," she breathed.

"Try me at nine-sixteen," Luca whispered.

Marco stepped beside Serena. He did not touch her, but his massive presence was an absolute wall. "This way, Miss Vance."

Serena looked around the room, searching for an ally among the bankers, the judges, the socialites who had fawned over her an hour ago. Every single one of them looked away. Some studied their champagne glasses; others turned their backs entirely.

With a choked, strangled sob, Serena Vance gathered the dripping folds of her silver dress and fled toward the service door, leaving a trail of Madagascar vanilla across the antique floor.

The ballroom remained frozen.

Luca turned toward the orchestra dais. He raised two fingers.

The conductor, a nervous man with sweat beading on his forehead, immediately tapped his baton against the music stand. The violins leapt into a lively, swinging rendition of Cole Porter’s Night and Day.

Luca walked to the center of the parquet floor, looked out at the assembled guests, and spoke with the effortless confidence of a sovereign addressing his court.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Luca said, his voice carrying over the music. "The Salvatore Benedetti Foundation has raised three point two million dollars this evening for vocational scholarships across Milwaukee. To celebrate that milestone, our caterer has provided what I consider to be the most authentic dessert service this city has ever seen."

He looked back at Roz.

"I suggest everyone try the bourbon pecan. Before it’s gone."

A beat of hesitation passed, and then the room erupted into applause. It started with the Waukesha judge, swelled through the parish priests, and finally consumed the entire ballroom. Guests began surging toward the dessert station with renewed enthusiasm, laughing, whispering, and devouring mini pies as if the food fight had been a planned piece of avant-garde entertainment.

Carmela walked up beside Roz, poking her in the ribs with an elbow. "I told you," the old woman whispered smugly. "A tick cannot survive in the cold."