Chapter Two #2
A memory forms, the way a bruise blooms under pressure.
A morning in August. A laugh from the other room.
The sound of a stainless steel pan on the stove and a voice humming a melody that still plays in my mind daily.
Maria. I see the small, unfettered tilt of her lips when she caught me watching her at the sink and shook her head like I was trouble.
It’s there. It always is. A strand I can pick up if I want to pull the whole thing loose.
Not tonight.
I put it down. Not by force. By decision. Grief is not a request; it doesn’t care what you want. But attention is a resource, and I don’t spend it when I can’t win anything back.
I stare past the glass, find the boat lights again, pick one, and watch until it’s gone. The feeling eases. It doesn’t vanish. Just eases.
I stand, stretch, and my spine answers with a small pop.
The clock in the hall ticks past 10:00. Early, for me. I think about the morning. The walkthrough, a call with the compliance team, a lunch I can’t skip with a city person who likes to tell stories he thinks are clever but are really just long.
I’ll sit, nod, file the real information under the talk, and get out. After that, there’s a meeting with Caterina about contracts I’ll review. She’s sharp. She sends only what I need to see. I don’t waste her time; she doesn’t waste mine. It works.
I turn off lights as I go. The alarm chirps when I arm the perimeter. The sensor shows all windows closed. The log shows no activity today, but the cleaner at 11:00, then the cleaner leaving at 3:00, and me now. Good.
Tomorrow morning, Clara is coming in. She’s my head of house, but she’s only in four days a week because that’s the way I like it.
Upstairs, I brush my teeth, wash my face with cold water, and stand there a second, towel in my hands, looking at nothing.
The bed receives me like it always does.
I don’t scroll the phone. I don’t check the news.
There will be noise in the morning, on the sites that make a living off outrage. I don’t need it.
I turn off the lamp, and my eyes adjust.
I think about nothing on purpose. It’s a trick I learned young.
When my mind tries to bring me faces, I give it lists: names of judges in the county in order of seniority, the addresses of every courthouse I’ve argued in, the major exits on the Parkway from north to south. It’s dull by design, and it works.
When sleep comes, it does it without warning. One minute I’m counting, the next I’m gone.
I’m up before the sun, the house still dark enough that the bay is not visible through the glass. I dress in the closet. Navy suit, white shirt, the tie I can knot in fifteen seconds flat without a mirror.
The espresso machine has already started warming, and when I come back down, the kitchen is exactly how I left it last night. I like the way the stillness settles around me in the morning. It makes the rest of the day filled with voices and chaos easier to handle.
I slice two pieces of bread, drop them into the toaster, crack two eggs into the small pan, and push them around until they’re just set.
I’m not hungry for much. I eat so I don’t get stupid in court.
The toast pops; I rub a cut clove of garlic across it, add the eggs, a grind of pepper.
The espresso flows into a small cup, crema tight, the scent doing half the work of waking me.
The house lights are at thirty percent. I don’t turn on more. The light outside the window steadily brightens. It’ll be a clear day. I take a sip of coffee and feel the edges of the night smooth out.
Soft footsteps sound behind me. “Morning, sir.”
“Morning, Clara.”
I don’t look up right away because she doesn’t need me to. Clara’s been with me long enough to know what I will and won’t fuss about. Head of house is the title she uses with vendors. To me, she’s Clara, the person who keeps the house running without leaving fingerprints on my life.
She knows my schedule and my preferences and exactly how far to push when I’m being unreasonable. She also knows when to leave it. Most people never learn that part.
“Orange delivery came early. I set aside a few,” she says, opening the fridge. “And I moved your court file to the hall console so you don’t forget it when you leave.”
“I wasn’t going to forget it.”
“I know,” she says, evenly. On the counter, she sets a small glass bottle of freshly squeezed juice and a cloth napkin. “You have ten minutes before you need to leave to be early. Twelve to be on time.”
“I’ll aim for eleven,” I say, and she gives me half a smile and turns to the laundry room.
I fork a bite of eggs, eat, sip coffee, let the ritual do the work.
The quiet is good. I plan the day in my head: walkthrough at the site at 8:00, court at 11:00, a call wedged between the two with a man who never believes I’m actually busy when I tell him.
After court, back to the office where I can put one problem to bed and pick up three more.
It’s fine. I don’t need easy. I need ordered.
I’m halfway through the toast when there’s a knock at the front door. Not the doorbell. An actual knock. Family. No one else could get in without an alert.
Clara is already moving. “I’ve got it,” she says, and disappears down the hall, flats silent on the runner.
I set the fork down and listen. The front door opens. Clara’s voice, warmer now. “Good morning, Ms. Conti.”
“Morning, Clara.” Bright, a rush of energy, a thread of impatience even when she’s being polite. Caterina. Of course.
I wipe my hands on the napkin and take another sip of espresso, because if she’s here at this hour, she wants something and I’m better with coffee in me. The click of heels moves down the hall. She breezes in like she always does.
“Tío Roberto.” She kisses my cheek, quickly. She smells like citrus and a morning that started earlier than mine. She’s in a cream blouse and black trousers, hair sharp at her jaw, eyes awake. She carries a tablet and a folder.
“You’re early,” I say, and gesture to the island. “Coffee?”
She waves it off. “Had one already. I’ll twitch.” She drops the folder on the counter, palms flat on the stone. “I came by to tell you in person. I officially hired a Marketing Coordinator.”
I pause with the cup halfway to my mouth. A beat, then another. “Did you.”
“I did.” She’s not tentative about it. She’s never tentative. “I know you thought we would make the final call together—”
“I didn’t think it,” I say, setting the cup down. “That was the plan.”
She exhales, either bracing or choosing her next words.
“It was on the plan, yes. And I was going to sit with you and go over the whole slate this afternoon. But once I sat down and spoke with her, I decided. I couldn’t not.
She’s perfect for it. And”—she lifts a hand, forestalling the lecture she knows is coming—“before you say anything, I did not do this blind. I’m not stupid. ”
The word comes out a little harsh, and I make a note to be careful. She’s wired tight this morning, but she’s also proud. That’s useful.
“Who,” I ask.
“Olivia Romano.” She smiles and flips open the folder. “MBA from Wharton. Concentrations in marketing and business analytics. Internships, yada yada.”
“Yada yada?” I lift a brow.
“It’s all there, Tio. She’s originally from California. Moved here yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” I repeat. “You move fast.”
“I had to,” she says. “I’m not going to limp into a launch if I knew what I wanted.”
I look at her. “You brought her all the way to Atlantic City before she had an offer.”
She doesn’t even blink. “I knew I was going to hire her if she was the same woman I remembered.”
“Caterina,” I say, voice low, not sharp. “You never told me all of that.”
“Because you would’ve disapproved,” she fires back, not defensive so much as factual. “And I didn’t want to fight about the means when I was sure about the end. I know her. I roomed with her all through school. All three years. I knew what she could do then, and she’s done more since.”
“We’re not in the business of hiring friends,” I say. It comes out even. Raising my voice with Caterina would not get me results.
“I didn’t hire a friend. I hired the best person for the job. The person who will get it done,” she says. “And Olivia always gets it done.” Her chin lifts; her eyes spark.
“I looked into her qualifications. I have her resume; I checked her recommendations—two of them unsolicited. I spoke with her references; I dug into the work product she could share. I didn’t pick her because she watched rom-coms with me and knows I hate mushrooms. I picked her because she walked in yesterday and, in thirty minutes, gave me a first-pass skeleton for the opening calendar that was better than the one I had in my head. ”
“Which was already good,” I say, because I’ve seen what her “first pass” looks like.
She exhales, a quick huff that takes some charge out of the air.
“Which was fine,” she says. “Hers was clean. Tight. She asked the right questions about comp policy and VIP criteria without making me feel like she was doing my job. She understands loyalty mechanics; she talked about moving new members to first redemption inside fourteen days without my prompting. She’s smart about spend.
She doesn’t chase shiny. And… she listens.
She’s not going to turn our opening into a circus because she wants a good reel on Instagram. ”
Clara steps just close enough to place a small plate of biscotti on the counter and then disappears again. It’s her way of telling me to keep my blood sugar up, even for this conversation, or else it’ll shut down.
I pick up a biscotti, set it down. “We had candidates,” I say. “Solid ones.”
“We did,” she says. “And I’ll show you the list, the notes, the scoring matrix I built, because I knew you’d want the rigor.”