“The Contis,” I say.
She nods once.
“How long?”
“A while.” She swallows. “Since the year of the hurricane… the week the tourist season got cut in half and the walk-in died. I thought I could float it. We had a good summer after. Then we lost two cooks. Then the sewer backed up, and you can’t serve zuppa di pesce when the city’s digging a trench outside your door, and the smell of sewage is mixing with the aroma of food. I borrowed again. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“How is it like this?” I ask. “Terms?”
Her mouth tightens. “Enough. Manageable at first. Weekly.”
“Interest?”
She hesitates just enough. “Yes.”
My skin prickles. “And you kept this from Nonna.”
“I did.” Her chin tips up—defiant and guilty at once. “She would’ve sold the chairs. She would’ve given them the wedding china. She would’ve given them the house, the restaurant. It would’ve killed her. Her heart was already working too hard. I wasn’t going to put this on her chest. She deserved to retire in peace.”
“And you kept it from me.”
“You were in Florence,” she says. “You were making something of yourself. What was I going to do, call and say, ‘Come home and drown with me?’ You would have.”
“I would have come home,” I say, throat tight. “I should have come home.”
“No.” Her voice sharpens. “You should have done exactly what you did. You left and did it right. I didn’t want you to waste your young years in a kitchen that’s falling apart around you. I wanted you to work in your dream kitchen. The one in Italy under a chef with a reputation. You deserved that.”
“I could have helped.”
“You help when you’re here. Then you leave again because that’s where you belong. That was the deal.”
“The deal where you don’t tell me when you sign us to a mob loan?”
Her eyes flash. “Watch your mouth.”
“Mine? He just walked out of here,” I say, jabbing a finger toward the hall. “You want me to pretend I didn’t hear the words ‘debt’ and ‘restaurant’ come out of his mouth like we’re talking about a late credit card payment? He’s not the bank, Ma. He’s not going to report you to the credit bureau.”
She takes the hit, breathes in slow like she’s counting. When she lets it out, it shakes. “You inherited a restaurant, not this,” she says. “This is mine.”
“It’s attached,” I say. “If it’s the restaurant, it’s mine now. That’s what you’re telling me.”
“I’m telling you I’m paying it,” she says. “I’ve been paying it. Every week. I will keep paying it until it’s gone.”
“With what?” I ask. “We don’t have a tree that grows cash.”
“With my hands,” she says. “With the food. With the room. With the tips I don’t take. With the bonus your grandmother left me. With every extra party I said yes to when I wanted to sleep.” She leans forward. “Don’t you dare look at me like I don’t know what this costs.”
“So, now what? You’re going to give them all the money that Nonna left you? Is that it? Will that cover it?”
Her eyes go wet all at once. She covers them with a hand. “Don’t say it like that.”
“It’s not, is it? How much, Ma?” I whisper, because if I don’t lower my voice, I might shout.
She doesn’t answer.
“What do they want?” I ask finally. “Tonight. Why now?”
“I don’t know yet,” she says, voice back to flat. “He wants to talk. We set it up for tomorrow morning.”
