She looks at me like that’s the funniest promise I’ve ever made. “Bibi, you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut.”
“I do when it counts.”
“Name one time.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
She rubs her forehead again, buys time. “He might not say yes to you being in the room.”
“My name is on the restaurant now,” I say. “He doesn’t have a choice.”
“What if he says something you don’t want to hear?” she asks.
“I’ve already heard things I don’t want to hear,” I say. “They didn’t kill me.”
“What if he looks at you like—”
“Like I don’t belong?” I shrug. “He can look. I’ll still be there.”
She huffs, a tired, almost-laugh. “You got that from your grandmother.”
“Probably,” I say.
She studies me for a long beat, then nods once, like it hurts. “8:00,” she says. “You sit. You don’t speak unless I ask you to.”
“Okay.”
She unlocks the door, and we step into the hall. The sound from downstairs rushes up—laughter, the printer, a pan hitting metal. At the top of the stairs, she squeezes my wrist, quickly. “Eat something,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to give me tonight.
“I will.”
We go down. The heat and noise meet us. The kitchen door swings into my hip. Zia catches my eye, reads my face, and points me to a chair. My mother slides back to the pass, tastes the red, sets the spoon in the groove, and calls, “Two bolognese, one cacio—fire.”
Chapter Six
Giovanni
I park across the street and watch the front of Regalia for a beat. Delivery guys have already made their runs. Bread is in. Produce too. Kitchen lights glow through the back.
I take the alley. Knock once. Let myself in.
I pass the prep table and head for the dining room without touching anything.
Francesca is waiting next to the bar. She’s got a file in her hand and that tight look around the mouth I’ve seen on a hundred owners who slept badly.
“Morning,” I say.
“Giovanni.” She steps back. “Come in.”
I do. And stop.
There’s someone else in the room. The granddaughter. Bianca. Hair up, plain black tee, jeans, no apron. Chin level. Eyes clear. No makeup. I hide my surprise the same way I hide everything else: I don’t show it.
“Mr. Conti,” she says. Voice steady. She doesn’t try to fill the silence with noise. She just looks at me and waits.
“Bianca,” Francesca says, like an introduction and a warning in one. Then to me: “My daughter will sit in.”
She offers a hand.
