I keep my phone tucked under the bar, screen lighting up over and over as I work. No answer. No read receipts. Nothing. My hands shake just enough that I catch myself measuring wrong more than once. Too much ice. Too little. I mix a drink I’ve made a thousand times backwards and have to dump it.
Izzy notices. She doesn’t say anything. She just steps in when she can, corrects things quietly, takes a table off my hands without making a fuss.
We’re so short-staffed it’s unreal.
Donald called in backups, but they’re kids. Barely out of training. They don’t know how Notte Bianca works. They cannot comprehend the pacing, the regulars, the little things that matter. As the day progresses, orders pile up, food comes out slow and complaints start trickling in.
The smart thing would’ve been to close, but Donald wouldn’t hear of it.
“Reservations are booked,” he’d said earlier, wringing his hands. “We can’t just cancel. That’s money straight out of my pockets.”
Ridiculous. He’d rather ruin the restaurant’s reputation with mediocre food and service than lose one night’s profit. Piece of shit.
Impulsively, I dial Rose’s number, and again, it goes unanswered. I set my phone down harder than I mean to and look toward the door, my stomach twisting.
Rose didn’t say goodbye.
And I can’t shake the feeling that this time, I should’ve stopped her.
My fingers drift to the bracelet on my wrist without me thinking about it. Coral beads. Amber beads. Cool against my skin. I press my thumb into them until it almost hurts.
Across the room, the day-old flowers are being swapped out. Rose’s colleague from the flower shop moves carefully,efficiently, like this is just another shift. Fresh stems. Clean water. No sign anything is wrong.
Everything looks normal.
Nothing is.
I keep texting Rose every second I get free, but between the understaffing situation and the full house we're having, I don't get many. Still, I've blown up her phone enough that if she was going to reply, she would have by now. The thought stabs right between my ribs.
Then I see them.
The mafia table is occupied tonight—but only halfway.
Giovanni is there. So is Mr. Neri. Quiet. Still. Exactly where they always sit.
Lucchese and Romano are missing. That part I understand. According to Izzy’s stories, they’re busy tending to Erin and Savannah, playing heroes in expensive suits. They'd left early last night too.
But Moretti?
He’s not there either.
Something cold slides down my spine.
I think of every time I caught him watching Rose. Not openly. Not enough to make a scene. Just… lingering. Like he was cataloging her. Like he knew something about her she didn’t.
The memory twists, reshapes itself into another one.
A lamppost. A red dress shirt. A man who was always there when Coral came home, until one day she didn’t.
My grip tightens on the bar.
If I could, I’d march straight over there and demand answers. Ask Giovanni what he’s done. What they’ve done. Ask him where my friend is.
But I can’t.
They’re big clients. Untouchable. If I make waves, Donald fires me. No discussion. No second chances.
And I can’t afford that.
