This is the part I hated about being a business owner: all the weight was on my shoulders. I wish I could afford to let my mom retire but until this place is flourishing , that won’t be in the cards for a while. Not until I get caught up. And knowing my mom, even if I told her to stop working she wouldn’t. Like tonight, she insisted on helping out since she knew I had to rush Mel to the hospital.
When my eyes landed on the table located next to the bar, my blood froze and my body went rigid. I saw my mom place a plate in front of the man I never thought I’d see again. The fucking audacity this guy had. If he thinks I'm that punk kid I was seventeen years ago, he’s in for a rude awakening.
My mom walks off, spotting me as I come closer to his table.
“Niccolo, you’re back, how did everything go?”
“Good, good. I’m driving Mel back to the lake house since her car got towed.”
“What? Oh my gosh, that poor girl. It’s just one thing after another for her.” Concern etched all in her features.
Even though we’ve been in America for almost thirty years, my mom still had an accent. It really shined through when she was worried too.
“Ya, I know. But she has her medicine now, so she should be fine.”
My mother cups my face. “che bravo ragazzo sei, Niccolò. ti amo tanto.”Such a fine boy you are my Niccolo. I love you so much.
“I love you too mamma. That’s why I'm sending you home. The rush is over so we’ll be fine.”
She slaps my shoulder. “I’m fine, Going home to an empty house makes me depressed. I don’t mind staying late at the restaurant. More excitement here than in my bed, that’s for sure.”
“Momma,”
“Niccolo.” she scolds.
“Mom it’s nine o'clock. Go home and get some rest. Okay?.”
She smiles and stands up on her tippy toes to gently kiss me as she squeezes my cheeks together. My mom was the only woman I have loved unconditionally, so she always got to embarrass me endlessly.
When my mom walked off, I zeroed in on Diablo. He was twirling pasta like he had no care in the damn world, dragging his bread through the olive oil like he belonged here—like this place didn’t make my blood boil with the sight of him. He didn’t see me coming. I stood right next to his table, heart pounding like war drums in my chest.
“Diablo. So nice of you to come to my restaurant. I’m honored,” I said, my voice dripping with venom.
He took his time chewing, then licked his lips. Slow. Calculated. Like he wanted me to swing first. His eyes rose to meet mine, and I swear I could smell the rot rolling off his soul.
“Look at you, rookie,” he said, that smirk curving his mouth like a scar. “Figured you’d be the last person I’d see here. Don’t most entrepreneurs have places to be? Money to spend, women to fuck?”
“I’m not most business owners.” I scanned him up and down. He was bulked up—like prison had sculpted him into something harder, meaner. A beast fed on rage and time.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
“Eating.” He gestured to his plate like this was some casual lunch. His teeth weren’t as white as I remembered. His eyes weren’t just dark—they were hollow. Soulless. “Thought I’d have myself a nice meal on the day I got out of prison. And what better way to celebrate than eating at my friend’s place?”
Friend. That word tasted like bile in my mouth.
“Wanted to see how Mr. Pretty Boy was holding up,” he added, his accent sharpening my name like a blade. “You’ve done well. Got the money, the travel, the upscale kitchen. Mommy must be proud. And hats off to the chef. This pasta’s damn good.”
“Thank you. I’ll let the chef know,” I ground out, fists clenched at my sides.
“But then again,” he said, swirling his wine, “anything tastes better than rot and cockroach stew.”
“Let’s cut the bullshit. What do you want, and why are you really here?”
He forked another bite into his mouth, chewing like it was performance art. Then, with exaggerated flair, he took a long drink of wine and swallowed.
It took everything in me not to snap his neck across the table.
“Just wanted to catch up, bro. Like old times. How’s Sophia? I saw she’s working the front.”
