Chapter 9 - THE TABLE GABRIEL COULD NOT BUY
My medical debt disappeared six months later.
Not because Gabriel paid it.
I did.
Consulting contract.
Ilvento shifts.
One ridiculous translation job for a documentary producer who somehow heard I spoke old Sicilian.
When I made the final payment, I printed the confirmation.
Then stared at it for five minutes.
PAID IN FULL.
Richard found me crying in the staff room.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“That is clearly a lie.”
I showed him.
He hugged me.
Then immediately asked if I could cover table eight.
Capitalism remains undefeated.
Luca's case moved slowly.
Audits expanded.
Several public officials resigned.
Others were investigated.
Gabriel sold or closed businesses he could not make clean enough to keep.
Rossi Holdings became smaller.
The newspapers called it a decline.
Gabriel called it breathing room.
Salvatore retired publicly.
He lasted four days before showing up at company offices and criticizing furniture.
Gabriel banned him from meetings.
Salvatore threatened to disinherit him.
Neither meant it.
My relationship with Gabriel remained annoying.
Coffee after shifts.
Arguments.
Walks.
No dramatic mafia courtship.
Once he sent a car for me without asking.
I sent it back.
He never did it again.
Once he tried reserving Ilvento's entire back room for dinner.
I refused to attend.
He changed the reservation to a normal table.
Progress.
Then he asked about my restaurant.
I had been building a plan secretly.
Twenty-four seats.
Lower East Side.
Sicilian-American food.
Not luxury.
Not nostalgia theater.
Real food.
Panelle.
Charred steak.
Garlic greens.
Braised beans.
My mother's lemon cake.
Matteo's chickpea soup.
I showed Gabriel the spreadsheet.
He studied it.
“You're undercapitalized.”
“I know.”
“I could invest.”
“No.”
“I anticipated that.”
“Good.”
He slid a folder toward me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“What is this?”
“Three lenders.”
Not Rossi-owned.
Normal commercial lenders.
He had asked Martin to identify small-business programs.
No calls made.
No pressure.
Just information.
I stared.
“You learned.”
“Painfully.”
I applied.
Got approved for one.
Signed a lease.
Renovation took four months.
Salvatore visited every week.
“This kitchen is too small.”
“Leave.”
“The oven is wrong.”
“Leave.”
“The chairs hurt my back.”
“Excellent.”
Gabriel leaned against the doorway laughing.
His father pointed at him.
“You will age.”
“Not if she kills us first.”
Opening week sold out.
Not because of mafia publicity.
I prohibited the Rossis from posting anything.
Word spread through Ilvento staff, neighborhood groups, and one restaurant critic Richard secretly invited.
The restaurant was named Cosenza.
Just that.
Mr. Cosenza would've complained.
Therefore it was perfect.
On opening night, Salvatore arrived forty minutes early.
“No table.”
He looked offended.
“You named the restaurant after my brother.”
“And?”
“I am Salvatore Rossi.”
“Congratulations.”
Gabriel arrived behind him.
“No reservation?” he asked.
Salvatore turned.
“You didn't make one?”
“You told me not to interfere.”
His father stared at me.
“What kind of establishment is this?”
“The kind where you wait.”
Salvatore muttered Sicilian profanity for twenty-three minutes.
Then sat at the bar like everyone else.
When his table was ready, I brought him steak.
No rosemary.
He cut one bite.
Chewed.
Closed his eyes.
“Well?”
He swallowed.
“Matteo would've complained.”
I smiled.
“Then it's correct.”
After service, Gabriel waited outside.
No bodyguards visible.
Hands in coat pockets.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Dinner sometime?”
I stared.
He'd asked before.
I'd always changed the subject.
“Not here.”
“Obviously.”
“Not Ilvento.”
“Fine.”
“No private room.”
“Painful.”
“And no sending a car.”
“I own shoes.”
I smiled.
“Friday.”
Gabriel went still.
“Friday?”
“Seven.”
He tried very hard not to look pleased.
Failed.
“Good.”
I started walking away.
“Tessa.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Matteo was right.”
“About?”
Gabriel smiled.
“I am extremely handsome when serious.”
May you like
I stared.
Then shut the restaurant door in his face.
