She starts the tomatoes before sunrise, same as always, stirring with that ridiculous wooden pole she’s had since the ’80s. Neighbors wave, joke about her “witch’s cauldron,” but no one complains. Until last week.

This time, a cop actually shows up. Says they got a report. “Possible illegal production.” My aunt doesn’t even flinch—she stirs slower, as if waiting for him to grow bored.

But he’s not here about permits. He points to the sauce. “Someone says this smells exactly like the paste from the San Giovanni fire. 1999.”

I freeze. I was nine. I remember that fire. A whole restaurant burned, insurance money changed hands, and no one was ever charged.

My aunt gets quiet. Then she says, too calmly, “That recipe was stolen. It belonged to my sister.”

Except—her sister’s been in Argentina since the ’90s. Claimed she couldn’t travel. Claimed she had lupus.

And now I’m standing here in the yard, next to a bubbling pot of tomato sauce that smells of buried memories and lies.

The cop looks at me like I’m supposed to confirm something, but all I can do is glance at my aunt. Her eyes are on the sauce, not on us. As if it’s telling her what to do next.