“Send the packet,” Sal said.
I looked at Nico’s hands. They stayed flat on the desk, palms down, steady.
“No,” he said.
The word was quiet.
The back of my throat went tight.
Sal exhaled. “Say that again.”
“I’m not signing default. I’m not certifying acceleration, penalties, collateral review, or lease pressure when she’s producing payment toward the original principal.”
“You don’t decide what the contract means.”
“I decide what I sign.”
The little fan clicked in the corner. Outside the office, Mari called for a clean piping tip, and the normal sound of the bar made Sal’s voice feel colder.
“Is Ms. DeLuca standing there?” Sal asked.
I leaned toward the phone. “I’m right here.”
“Naturally.”
“Yes. Women who own businesses do that sometimes.”
“Nico has a role. You’ve made him forget it.”
“No,” Nico said. “I remember it exactly.”
His voice stayed quiet, which made it worse.
Sal ignored him. “Ms. DeLuca, your payment toward principal doesn’t erase default.”
“No,” I said. “But it proves the bar is earning. It proves I’m paying the honest part.”
“The contract allows remedies beyond the honest part.”
“There it is,” I said.
Nico turned his head toward me.
I picked up the top page from the folder. My hands stayed steady because this was mine, and Sal Torretti didn’t get to make me shake in my own office.
“You didn’t want me to pay,” I said. “You wanted to see whether this place was worth taking.”
Sal gave a low laugh. “Careful.”
“I’ve been careful for four days. I have receipts, closed card batches, deposit notes, food and drink totals, and a second public push about to open. If you want to argue about money, argue about money. If you want the bar, say you want the bar.”
“Nico,” Sal said, “get her out of the room.”
Nico didn’t move.
I looked at him.
He looked back at me.
