Dusty drifted in behind her with a bag of clean towels over one shoulder and sunglasses on his head. “I feel like survival is a strong theme for the hospitality industry.”
“Survive by putting those towels behind the bar,” Mari said.
“I can support that,” Dusty said.
I clapped my hands once. “Listen up. Today’s push is the shark margarita and mini cannoli cups. Not last night again. No table cards, no explaining a whole theme to people who think menus are riddles. Taryn, you prep the front and queue the social post, but it doesn’t go live until I say. Shay, you keep the blue drink fast and pretty without making it taste like pool water. Mari, cannoli stays under your authority. Dusty, if you put anything filled with cream near sunlight, I’ll call your mother.”
Dusty blinked. “You know my mother?”
“No, but I have determination and internet access.”
“That seems possible,” he said, and moved faster.
Nico waited until the staff split into motion before stepping closer. “What do you need from me?”
“Right now? Carry the dry shell cases to the pass. After that, check the front rail and keep tourists from blocking the service path. When Sal calls, you take it where I can hear. You don’t answer questions about my business without me. You don’t scare my staff. You don’t sign anything.”
His attention stayed on me through every sentence.
“I won’t sign it,” he said.
The room noise kept moving. Shay poured the adjusted blue prototype into a fresh glass. Mari snapped on gloves. Taryn filmed the drink from an angle that hid the mop bucket because she was a professional.
I kept my voice low. “Nico.”
“I won’t certify default.”
My fingers tightened around the notebook.
I picked up the tray of empty cannoli cups and shoved it toward him. “Pass. Dry side. Don’t crush my dessert inventory while making major life choices.”
His hands closed over the tray. “Yes, boss.”
“Don’t enjoy that.”
“I’m not making promises I can’t keep.”
By eleven forty-seven, the bar was prepped, the adjusted shark margarita had passed Shay’s taste test, Mari had declared the cannoli cream acceptable for civilized people, and Taryn had the launch video saved in drafts with her thumb hovering dangerously close to the post button.
By eleven fifty-eight, my phone lit up.
SAL TORRETTI
I didn’t touch it.
Nico looked at me.
“Office,” I said.
He picked up the phone. “Speaker?”
“Always.”
The tiny office still smelled like old receipts and hot printer paper. I shut the door behind us, set the payment pages on the desk, and watched Nico answer.
“Uncle Sal,” he said.
The line stayed quiet for one beat.
