Her grip tightened on the folder. “That better be true.”
“It is. No one’s coming through your door over this.”
She held my stare for one beat longer.
“I don’t know every piece of what it costs yet,” I said. “But it’s mine to sort out, not yours to carry.”
Then she reached up and flicked my gold chain. “Good. Because I’m busy being emotionally available to my own problems right now.”
A laugh broke out of me before I could stop it.
Her expression softened.
“I want you here anyway,” she said.
The laugh died in my chest.
She lifted one hand before I could answer. “I don’t want you here as an owner. I don’t want you here as a secret investor. I don’t want you here as the man who decides which shelf gets the tequila.”
“I don’t want your shelves.”
“You say that now, but you have control issues and opinions about citrus.”
“I can work on one of those.”
“Great. Start with the shelves.” She stepped closer, receipts between us. “I want you here because you stood beside me tonight. Because you didn’t take the proof out of my hands. Because when it mattered, you told him no.”
I looked down at her.
The alley light caught the curve of her cheek, the dark strands slipping loose from her scarf, and the tired slope of her shoulders. She stood in front of me and offered me a place beside her that didn’t require taking anything away.
My voice came out rough. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Obviously.”
“That was quick.”
“I’m tired. My filter closed with the kitchen.”
I reached for the receipt folder, then stopped.
Nella handed it to me.
My fingers closed around the folder, and my throat tightened.
I held it while she unlocked the service door.
Inside, the bar waited with its lights low and the night’s success everywhere.
The black sea-salt rim had stained the service mat in little dark crescents. Empty cannoli trays sat stacked by the pass, dusted with powdered sugar and tiny crumbs. The register was locked. The cash drawer was empty. The blue drink pitcher had left a bright ring on the back counter.
Nella walked in first, kicked the door shut behind us, and leaned back against it.
For the first time all night, nobody needed her name from the kitchen.
No tickets printed. No blender screamed. No one asked whether mozzarella could be spiritual, gluten-free, or more authentic if served with feelings.
In the quiet, her shoulders dropped half an inch.
