I take it. Warm. Dry. Firm shake. Up close, the line of her jaw is sharper, her lips lusher.
I nod once. “Your house,” I say. I gesture to one of the tables, and they each take a chair on one side. I sit opposite them. Roberto would make a joke here. I don’t.
“We’ll be quick,” I say. “I know you’ve got a day to get ready.”
She nods. Bianca’s eyes flick to the ledger, then to me, then back. Not nervous, just taking inventory. It hits me in a place in a way I don’t expect, how much she looks like her grandmother when she’s cataloging a room. That same stillness. That same not-wasting-motion.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I add, because it’s still true.
“Thank you,” Bianca says before her mother can answer. She doesn’t soften it with a smile. Respect received, filed.
Business, then.
“Terms are the same,” I say. “Schedule is the same. I wanted to make sure you were straight on that while things are shifting.”
Francesca opens the file and slides a single sheet toward me. Receipts. A neat column of weeks. I don’t need to read it; I know it. She hits the number every time. Sometimes it’s tight. Sometimes it’s early. Never late. That’s why I’m here talking and not sending someone else.
Bianca keeps her hands folded neatly on the table. “What’s shifting?” she asks.
“Ownership,” I say.
Her mouth doesn’t move. She doesn’t glance at her mother. “You already know.”
“I do now,” I say, and let the truth sit. “Congratulations.” The word sounds odd in this situation, but it’s the right one.
“It’s not exactly a party,” she says.
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
Francesca clears her throat. “Nothing changes,” she says. “For you. For us. We keep the schedule.”
Bianca watches both of us like she’s taking notes in her head. “Can I ask a question before you go on?” she says.
Francesca cuts her a look. “Bibi—”
“It’s a basic one,” Bianca says. “What’s ‘standing’? Are we talking about a number that exists and we’re paying it down, or are we talking about a pipe that bursts every time we think we’ve got it fixed?”
Francesca closes her eyes for one beat. I answer because I respect the way Bianca asked. Simple and to the point.
“This is a private note. Not the bank. Not the lease. It’s mine,” I say. “Francesca and I set it up. Weekly payments. Interest that won’t drown you if you keep your head up. You’ve kept your head up.” To Francesca: “You’ve been good for it.”
She lifts her chin a fraction. “I said I would be.”
“You were,” I say. Back to Bianca: “She asked for room to get through a bad stretch. I gave it.”
Bianca flips a blank order pad on the desk and clicks a pen, like she might write something down, and then decides not to. “How much is left?”
Francesca shoots her a look. Bianca doesn’t flinch.
I rattle off the remaining balance, then say, “I didn’t come to throw figures at you. We’re not haggling. We’re confirming.”
Bianca nods like that answer passes a test. “And if the ownership changes, the debt stays with the business,” she says. Not a question.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “As long as I get paid. I’m not here to hold anyone hostage. If you want to refinance with the bank, be my guest. If the bank says yes, I collect my share and step out of the way.”
Francesca gives me a look she probably doesn’t mean to—half relief, half disbelief. “The bank didn’t help when I asked,” she says.
“They may help her,” I say.
