Two hours and fifty-eight minutes.
I turned the phone facedown. “Taste the cannoli.”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s food in my bar. Everything is an order.”
I took the tray from the low cooler. The shells were crisp little cups, small enough to eat in two bites and sturdy enough for patio service if nobody got artistic with humidity. I piped chocolate-chip cannoli cream into one, dusted the top, and set it on a napkin in front of him.
Nico picked it up carefully for a man who could probably bend the sink with one hand.
He ate it in one bite.
His eyes closed for half a second.
Heat slid under my skin and went straight to the place where I had no time for it.
“Useful words, Torretti.”
He opened his eyes. “Dangerous.”
“To my profit margin or your self-control?”
“Yes.”
Shay made a quiet sound and pretended to clean the same spoon.
I pulled the tray back before Nico could see how much I liked that answer. “The shell holds?”
“The shell holds. The cream needs to stay cold until service.”
“I know. I have a plan.”
“Of course you do.”
“Don’t sound proud. It makes me itchy.”
The side door banged open, and Mari came in with her tote bag, black hair already twisted tight and gold hoops flashing under the kitchen lights. She took one look at Nico, the blue drink, the cannoli tray, and the paperwork on the counter.
“No one is bleeding,” she said. “That’s nice.”
“Give us time,” Shay said.
Mari pointed at the cannoli tray. “Those can’t sit filled on the patio.”
“They won’t,” I said. “Cold cream in the piping bag, dry shells at the pass, six fresh at a time.”
Mari’s mouth flattened in approval. “Good. I don’t want tourists posting sad cannoli on the internet.”
“Nobody posts sad cannoli from my bar.”
Taryn came through the front with menus under one arm and her phone in the other, honey-brown braid swinging over her shoulder. “Three people asked if last night’s thing is happening again because they saw photos.”
“No,” I said. “Last night had a name. Today has survival.”
“Should I write that on the chalkboard?”
“Absolutely not.”
