Page 176 of Dagger in the Sea

“Really? Lucky you.”

“Yeah, very lucky,” I murmured, my gaze going to the sea of tall, metal and glass buildings scraping dense, gray clouds out the window.

“How ironic, but very fortunate for the new restaurant,” she said.

I met my mother’s eyes once more. “Tell me everything about the new restaurant.”

She told me, until the nurse kicked me out a few hours later.

* * *

I kept myself busy,pouring over details of the restaurant, from replacing the destroyed fixtures, to overseeing the cleaning and restoration from the fire, smoke, and water damage. Staff training picked up again. We’d be ready to open. Maybe forty days after Erin’s originally planned date, but we’d open.

Every morning at home, I amused myself with an espresso reading the newspaper reports about the investigation into the destruction of the Guardino crime family, the chaos, the disarray left behind. How the bomb used at Sal’ssalumeriahad the signature of the Smoking Guns, an infamous motorcycle club associated with the Tantucci Outfit. Arrests had been made, and multiple investigations by local police and the FBI were under way.

Finger had killed his bird with our mutual stone.

I didn’t hear from Luca again. I continued to be “distraught” over my boss’s demise and kept very busy running my mother’s company during her recovery and being with her at the hospital and then the rehab facility. From what I read in the paper, from what my former right-hand man, Paul, had told me, Emilio was cleaning house and holding the reins tightly in his fist. Paul also told me that the new boss was going to dissolve my operation.

“Really? I think I’ll make him an offer,” I’d told him.

Of course, that had already been agreed on between me and Luca, but we had to make it look good for everyone else. Luckily, I could afford to buy.

“So, you’re out now?” Paul asked after the deal was done.

“Aliberti is consolidating and cutting the fat. I bought the gig for a hefty price, but it was worth it to me. I’ll be paying him a protection fee, of course, but it’s all mine. He’s bringing in his own people, reorganizing. He’s not going to trust me. Anyway, I’m very busy with my mother’s company right now. The timing is right for me to move on. Believe me, I know I’m lucky to be able to move on.”

“Yeah, sure.” Paul shifted his weight.

“Thanks for everything you’ve done for me, Paul. I told Aliberti that you’ve been solid. That he can rely on you.”

“‘Preciate it, Turo.” We hugged, slapping each other on the back.

Over lunch at my mother’s steakhouse, I told Tricia that I’d bought the escort business outright and offered her a choice.

“You want to stick with me and this business or you want out?” I asked, cutting into my rare rib eye.

She put down her fork and oversized steak knife. “What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sticking with you. Fuck yes! Does this mean we can make those changes we’ve discussed?”

We’d wanted to go upscale for a long time. Less in and out whore for the ordinary john, more highly qualified escort experience for the client who could appreciate and could pay.

“All the changes.”

Her face beamed, a beacon cutting through the fog. “Waiter!” She ordered a bottle of Bollinger.

* * *

Today I was finally sittingdown with Dean, the chef of the new Greek restaurant, in his new kitchen.

Dean was a Greek American in his twenties who’d worked in New York and Athens for a summer and had returned to his Chicago roots. He was relieved that I was committed to opening. We reviewed his different menu plans for the coming months, discussed his culinary vision as he cooked for me in the kitchen.

“Erin has been amazing, really supportive,” he said as he plated three large grilled shrimp on a long, bright blue dish and scattered oregano over them, then flakes of salt. “She has her opinions, I have mine. We don’t always agree, but she’s always willing to listen. It’s obvious that she’s dedicated to great food and great service, not just making a splash and a buck.” He drizzled olive oil over the shrimp. “And that’s been huge for me in this whole crazy process.”

“This is your first restaurant, right?”

“Yeah.” He let out a breath of air as he wiped the edges of the plate. “In here I know what I’m doing, what I need to do. Out there—” he slanted his head toward the dining room, “—not so sure. Not yet at least.” He slid the plate before me.

“How’d you come up with the name ‘Porto’?” I asked, peeling back the shell on the shrimp, my mouth watering at the sight of the perfectly cooked texture, the grilled aroma.

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