Page 14 of Worship
I laugh out, “Understood.” She’s been baby crazy the minute she signed on the dotted line with my brother. “Have your own and you won’t need to live vicariously.”
“I’m working on it.” He chuckles. “Hey, close the deal tonight for the new bar. I want that place bad.”
“Done.”
We’ve had our eye on this swanky little bar downtown. It’s a great spot, with amazing food and the kind of ambiance that creates a brand. Problem is, the owners can’t carry the kind of debt they’ve buried themselves under. I’m here to make them an offer they won’t turn down.
They’ll be richer than they wished to be, and Dom and I will take their rough draft and turn it into the hottest fucking bar in Chicago and spread it worldwide. And if they say no, I’ll make sure they tank, and then I’ll buy it for pennies on the dollar after they beg me for it. But I try to be decent first.
We pull up outside a small Italian joint called Mama’s, owned by friends who feel more like family. I stumbled upon it when Dom and I were researching restaurants before opening our first venture. The food is insanely good, the kind you only get from those who bleed generations of knowledge into every meal. I pull on the heavy wooden door, letting light into the small space, the smell of garlic infiltrating my nose as I inhale.
It’s a hole-in-the-wall, with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and plastic menus, but it’s the best Italian food in the city. My eyes adjust as the heavy door clunks behind me, creating a cacophony of noise inside the quiet space. The light that bled in has disappeared, leaving the room dark, lit only by tables with half-burned candles and small lamps. The faint sounds of music caress the air and bring a half smile to my face. It creates an ambiance for sure.
“Luca! È passato troppo tempo da quando ti abbiamo visto.”Luca! It’s been too long since we saw you.
My already placed smile grows as Mario makes his way to me, in his crisp white shirt and black apron, to shake my hand.
He and his wife have owned this restaurant for over forty years. I respect that—people don’t have that kind of commitment to anything anymore. It’s admirable. They have a legacy to give to their children and a lifetime to look back on together.
“Luca! Vergognatevi. Dove sei stato?”Luca! Shame on you. Where have you been?Mario’s wife, Sophia—a petite, rotund beauty—calls out from behind the bar as she lifts the counter flap and lets herself out to greet me. I smile at her dismayed face because I know it’s been too long, but I’ve been busy.
“I know, gorgeous, but I have to keep my figure.”
I pat at my hard stomach, answering in English. Her finger wags at me, and she pushes to her tiptoes to grab my face with her small chubby fingers. I have to bend forward to accommodate her abuse of my face, but I don’t mind.
“I thought you stopped loving me.”
She gives my head a little shake and releases my cheeks from her grip. I chuckle at her words, accented heavily by the unfamiliarity of English.
“Come potrei smettere di amare la mia migliore ragazza?”How could I stop loving my best girl?I lean down and kiss her cheek, and she swats me away, embarrassed by my flirtation. “Quando hai intenzione di lasciare tuo marito per me?”When are you going to leave your husband for me?Sophia laughs, smiling over at Mario as I give her a wink.
“Dominic joining you today?” Mario asks, kissing his wife’s temple.
“No, he’s busy with Drew.”
They laugh because we all know Dominic is long gone over that woman.
Slapping my arm, Sophia points to a table.
“Siediti, ti porterò la cena.”Sit, I’ll bring you dinner.I pretend injury, reaching for my shoulder and grimacing before I walk to the table I’ve been ordered to sit at.
That’s the best part of this place. I don’t look at a menu. Shit, I don’t even get to choose what I want to eat. Sophia will bring me food, and I’ll love it. It was the closest thing I had to a homecooked meal and a familial feeling, until we started Sunday dinners at Dom’s.
I shrug off my suit jacket to make myself comfortable in the booth, tossing my phone onto the table. My palms hold my weight on the table as I scooch into the banked seat. The waiter appears with a glass filled with amber liquid.Mario is a mind reader.
He places the bourbon down in front of me, and I wrap my hand around the tumbler, giving him a small nod. The liquor swirls with the movement of my hand before I take a swig, feeling the bite in my throat that gives way to the burn.
I turn my phone over and text Dante before I forget.
Me: Sunday at Dom’s.
Dante: Yeah. I’m thinking about bringing someone. You bringing Shelby?
Me: No. You bringing tits or a cock?
Dante: What?
Me: Girl or a friend.
